Baby Blue

Today the park is cool and teeming
as a church in a rainforest.
Bicycles whirr back and forth like insects,
kids come charging down the hill
dressed in skipping ropes and sweaters.
Under the trees, pale sheets are spread;
light shines through lemonade in rainbows,
daisies bloom among used bus tickets,
old men mumble in their sleep.

There is a lollipop lying in the grass.
An old lady stabbing at a crossword
rubs the skin of her head, where lives
the old sponge of her torture.
Above her the trees accumulate
as beaches of cotton, leafy cumuli
billowing out of the ground like gas,
or green dye spreading upwards into water.
The willows weep into the pond
where once a chocolate labrador drowned.

Beyond the cast iron fences, cars
whistle through the day like wind.
Above, hydrogen is wearing thin,
God is nodding like a giant blue baby,
his eyes closing into our green world.
Clouds drift across our nursery walls.
Out of such bright imperial blues,
come lightning storms, and bombs.