Memories of Hawthorn Avenue, Relived In A Day, Alice Stephens

A worker locks her front door
under the new sun’s shade
leans beneath the bus stop sign
and wipes sleep from her eye.
Engines interrupt empty roads.
A car waves up and over speed bumps
to the rhythm of knitting needles.
‘They’re not speed ramps, dad.’
Ants leave nests in neat lines.
School children filter up the road
in uniform. In groups,
they follow phone screens.
A uni student with no time 
between his job and lectures
cycles to the library, novel in
saddlebag. He can’t afford the fine.
A new mum pushes her pram
over cracked pavement stones.
An empty baby food cupboard
has prompted a Co-Op trip.
The playground off Hickory Avenue
sparks a toddler’s grin. His grip
on nana’s hand tightens, then loosens.
She watches him trundle across the green.
High-vis volunteers cheer and
emerge from Gardenia Walk;
litter-pickers raised and full
bin bags slung over shoulders.
The smell of batter and vinegar,
fish wrapped in paper, gripped
tight by a woman against her chest.
Mum’s sorted tonight’s dinner.