My first Hawthornden poem

Lunch hour.

The gulls and the crows buzz Polton Hill
settle in the soccer pitch
across the way
you can hear the shriek the ripping cry
of children at recess
from a half-a-block down the road
but oh how they tear
in gym togs and slate grey uniforms
the same windblown texture
as the sky
the crossing guard
in her reflective slicker upturned brim
and heels glances at
leaning up against the fence
with her brick-thick novel
watches for children
the way the half-dozen parents at the gate
make many one
claim a tangle of legs
a long slope of neck
think her
her
him
the way the woman waves
hullabaloos her teenage grandson
down the street
the sleeves of her shirt rippling
with her going-through-the-motions
his
says
Isn’t it lovely out so nice
not to be wrapped up
in a big jumper
isn’t it?
and the gull circling her chimney
an hour from the sea
the blighted English roses
in her neighbour’s yard
and me the Gay Gordon
three generations
gone
all squawk
yes yes
yes