After Helmut Jacoby’s Sketch of Fishermead, Milton Keynes

Soft clustered vines grow under the handrail
as a man relaxes on his balcony.
He might be sleeping as his cup of tea rests
by a small pot of bowing flowers.
All the surrounding houses are the same
from the flat rooves to the pristine brickwork.
Children run around in open green space
while several mothers push their prams,
distant oaks burst from the flatness.

Reality, as I walk down Penryn
litter twists in the wind, not a face to be seen.
The cladding’s cracked and dropping off,
the once-beige bricks have since blackened.
Heading through the central alleyway
my eyes settle on the small field ahead
where the council planted daffodils.
The expected hum of bees
cut off by someone’s speakers.