By Sue Hunter
There’s not much of a view from here –
The white house opposite,
Our car, a picket fence with its garden gate
– and a little cherry tree,
Not in blossom now, but next spring, it’s bound to be.
A train rumbles along the track nearby ¬–
Reassuringly familiar, it’s the local train
– not the London one,
Probably empty now, probably late, but, soldiering on.
Wet leaves grease a glistening road –
Dangerous if you move too fast.
A slower world, with time to wonder
– and imagine what might be,
When once again, blossom blooms on the cherry tree.