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Ruby McKie

My three layers unveiled:
A colourful scarf
A green wool jumper
A faux leather coat

I can taste Spring
In my fresh mint tea
And the sunlight pouring through the window
In the women walking
With jumpers tied around their shoulders
Like cloaks for show.

But still I sense the remains of winter
In the huddled crowds
And their rushed walks
In the crimson of my chapped hands
Cradling my tea cup

In the cyclist passing by
Almost faceless
Wrapped in her bundles of clothes
Deafened by the wind
whipping back her hair

In the not quite cloudless sky,
The circling of restless birds,
And the bare branches of the trees
Their nests;
The only decoration

A revolving green recycling van,
Almost ploughs me down.

I walk past South park;
Earth ripped up,
Gravel wrapped up in tarpaulin,
Shaped like a body bag.

Birds I’ve never noticed before,
Resting at the top of tall bare trees.
I take it in
The lingering scent,
Of a stranger’s perfume

Overgrown roots,
Suffocate the allotment fence.
A clothes bin with plastic bags,
Spilling out its mouth.
The abandoned body of a toilet,
And a cardboard box propped against it.

Winter’s layers unveiled:
In hues of deep green, crimson,
And gravel grey.