I’ve moved my window boxes around:
The winter cyclamens go – they are old!
They yield to thrusting hyacinths
And see! – the first crocus has burst into gold.

It’s Saturday and it’s strangely still.
So many people – I can’t hear a thing.
We lead separate lives, but share  a space
And time this morning of almost spring.

Few of us old white tenants remain;
Grumbling, we shuffle off into the dark.
Big-bellied foreign women move in
And little black children laugh in the park.