MOTH AND RUST

In the council estate across the road
the boys pause in their sport of breaking glass
to look up at white trellis and climbing rose
on the balcony where our garden grows.
'And who do they think they are? What class?
Are they slumming?' And window panes explode.

In the jigger a lad looks up and stares.
'Did you see that they have a waterfall?'
And I hold my breath and just wonder when
the first boy will shin up to trace in felt pen
his predictable hatred on our wall.
I imagine that wilfully he tears
the petunias in armfuls from the urns.
And quite often at night as I watch TV
I hear sounds from the balcony upstairs,
and I rush up the steps to see who dares
to disfigure a cherished plant or tree;
my heart races and hesitates by turns;
and there's nobody there: old growth, new sprout
are unscathed and the tangled aromas move
in the wind; I return to take my seat
by the telly; however, I cannot cheat
the bad dreams of assault or quit the groove
of an anticipated wiping out.