THAT LONG AWAITED THING

I stumble on a root
as I pass the prettiest cottage,
the one that makes me look twice, anyway;
there's no one around
and then, suddenly, there are, 
hordes of us, out for the sun.

I am cosy enough, bobble hat

and turtle neck, winter boots and long black hair -

well, I say black - I mean tiger

striped, the covid Bengal look, 

plumped up by inertia,

endangered only by sleepy somnolence.

Past more roots and the London 50 sign,

ochre homes and ochre leaves,

leaves burning on the friendly wind,

banks of snowdrops,

blackbirds heralding

that long awaited thing. 

I park myself by the berry tree,

damping my book on a mossy wall - 

these are covid tricks,

for covid times,

when paths are lean, and 

not a mask in sight. 

The 'SHE' fell off the Shelford sign

at the Chinese take away - 

a mark of this year's wear and tear;

the mayor and the spy 

put up plaques of their own -

a mark of wealth and long roots sown. 

The poet snails by,

tithing her time,

she was grown when she arrived,

and though loved, unseen, unknown,

she became that awaited thing 

and SHE WROTE HERE will do. 

© Shaista Tayabali, 2021

Photography by me, except for the blackbird in full throated song by Kathrin Swoboda. 

Linked to Dverse Poets for Thursday poetry night ...