Before shade becomes too dense under thorn
and ash and oak and elder
the anemone opens its arms
to a scrawny sun
unsettling in early April as a road or womb.
Month I called all those years ago
from a graffiti daubed booth in North Belfast
anticipating perhaps wanting
some kind of reprimand
still stunned having just jacked in the job.
Night nurse in private health care setting
or as a patient
from the Shankill said fucking kip shop
taffeta-tongued owner with a padlocked till
age commoditised & dementia hawked.
Ringing that morning expecting mention
of bill and mortgage
your only words sure it’s the spring
season when the shy wind flower wakening
at dawn waits for its wild and fickle god.
Now with sepal and stem and lobed-leaf gone
lone woodland trace is a root mound
but the phone box survives
and in cold crystal air a single white star
shaped flower blossoms there.