By Harrow Road
Against dusk’s bands of scarlet-velvet light,
a Jehovah’s Witness clutches a crumpled
Book of apocalypse, and glowers
at a slammed front door.
Behind her, part in dare, part pulled by blues,
nonchalant to foretold doom, a teenage boy
walks on a wall’s slender height. To the left,
a harried old man takes unsure steps
down to the chill of the GP surgery;
and the kid stops, spotting a school girl
who sambas and sashays on toe-tips,
smiling as though it’s August Carnival,
when the air pulsates to a free jazz rhythm –
circling, adapting, vibrant, then gone.
Neil Reeder is a researcher on public services, who lives and works in London. His poems have been published in Iota, Equinox, the Rialto, and Soul Feathers.