Whistling,
she carries wildflowers
and wild garlic
stains her sleeve.
She is not
from the city
I stare
at the white blossoms
caught in her hair.
My shoes
on the pavement
her hair blows wild.
Songbirds chitter,
pip, squeak
in the bordering trees
in a startling thunder
of wings
they fly.
Her laugh
takes to the sky.
She, an earthed breeze
in a close London square.
I stare
at white blossoms
caught in her hair.