Alice Harrison is a retired teacher who, after living most of her life in a North Wales seaside resort, has recently moved to a town in Middle England She began writing seriously when she joined the Open University Poets in 1992. Her poems have appeared in several magazines.

Neighbourhood

Beside the sea, between the wars
they settled down here:
rows of plump, pebble-dashed bungalows,
knowing nothing about India,
or art deco despite their sunburst facades.
Identical curve-topped walls
and sit-up-and-beg wooden gates
divided their sandy lawns and salty flowerbeds
from rudimentary roads of holes and stones,
bordered by long grass, buttercups and daisies,
dandelions and dog shit, where cats hunted
and children, home from the beach, made dens.

In a new century, pebbles no longer dashing,
bucket and spade jollity abandoned,
their warped and weathered wood sunbursts
have faded to PVC fascias, walls and gates
morphed into ornamental spikes.
Lawns and gardens have been gravelled, tiled,
decked, tarmacked, patioed, barbecued.
Cars are half- parked on proper pavements.

Always, around the corner, a corner shop,
a pub, a church, a bus stop, a main road.
And the tide comes in
and the tide goes out.

Bus Stop Conversation

Where's the summer gone? It's going to rain.
As per usual the bus is late.
I hope they haven't cancelled it again.
I'll miss my appointment at this rate.

As per usual the bus is late.
You watch, two will come together.
I'll miss my appointment at this rate.
This shelter's useless in bad weather.

You watch, two will come together.
Half an hour I've been waiting here.
This shelter's useless in bad weather.
I'd like to get to town this year.

Half an hour I've been waiting here.
One passed without stopping yesterday.
I'd like to get to town this year.
It'll be roadworks causing the delay.

One passed without stopping yesterday.
I hope they haven't cancelled it again.
It'll be roadworks causing the delay.
Where's the summer gone? It's going to rain.

Clock

I have an impassive face, obedient hands,
precise numbers, a case hiding secret
inner workings, an obsessive pendulum.
My tick is automatic but not autonomous.

I record and comprehend seconds, minutes, hours.
Days, months, seasons, years are for calendars.
Periods, fashions, regimes may be as long or as short
as historians deem - nothing to do with me.

Obviously I acknowledge the passage of time
but remain indifferent, have no influence.
I can't bring closure, dénouements or pay-offs.
I won't ring down the curtains on any finalés.

Don't blame me for missed deadlines,
botched zero hours, prolonged bitter ends.
Don't thank me for your golden handshakes,
fifteen minutes of fame or happy-ever-afters.

You say time both flies and stands still.
Time may heal but not with my assistance.
I cannot even reconcile time running out
with eternity.