(overheard underneath someone’s window whilst walking to buy bread and milk, again, three months into the third lockdown)
My thoughts are in the cherry blossoms in the thaw of Nagasaki,
where they budded bloomed and fell pink over the dust
to land underneath tables where people sipped coffee
and spoke louder than they had in years.
To land amongst the rush of polished shoes heading to
construction site or business meeting or classroom as though they
were all walking towards the same birthday party,
or between the bare feet of children chasing sprites in gardens
with a limp and a grin, to whom dialysis is just a word
like shelter and medicine and a damaged kidney
is just another bruise to count.
Those gardens where their mothers grow orchids in fresh soil
and glass from scarred skin, buried deep until one morning it falls
with a clink in the shower, chapping like an old friend at the door
to gossip about the woman down the street.
The cherry blossoms fall across a city learning that spring always
returns, you just have to survive the winter
and beggars with full cups will testify
to the new conversations held, worth more than their pockets,
and a man who finds a shiny copper coin spends it on a newspaper
that tells him there is nothing interesting happening in the world,
nothing at all.
Niki Brennan is a writer and poet from Glasgow, Scotland. His work has been featured in Kalposia and Valeur. He holds an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Strathclyde.