Lamlash Street or `the Outer Approaches to Climate Change´

Susie Wright

Named after the picturesque harbour of a remote Scottish Isle,

Lamlash Street is a gully of London trash and treasure.

On my way to work, it´s my daily grimy pleasure.

It is a bombed-out gut with allotments either side, hosting a small regeneration project in the heart of our city of millions.

A customised road with wood framed planted borders,

boxes and tubs.

It’s a short cut for me and that guy out of ´Live and Let Die ´.

Seasons of still lives and urban lives inhabit this street.

This is NOT an ordinary place.

One morning I am greeted by a large brown bear with a lap full of

bright red plastic roses, sitting amongst the planting.

Overhead there´s that street notice which says…….

`Ít´s probably nothing………………BUT…….´

On other days, I meet Mum and a skipping daughter,

walking // skipping hand in hand.

I see a serious looking bloke, pensive, with fag in hand,

sat in the shade of a blossoming tree, haloed by virgin blooms.

A tawny cat meanders round a tub of red-hot pokers.

That cyclist flashes past in a bright orange blink.

Selecting leaves from a planter full of coriander,

a saried lady shares with me and without a word,

the aroma of fresh shoots in her palm.

That day the street is scrubbed and weeded, with birds in their nests.

It is at its Sunday best.

A well-groomed fox takes dainty steps on the tarmac.

Early morning, I am tailing a short guy,

the back of his shaven head is in my sight line, broad white random scars speak the trauma of multiple life-threatening attacks.

There`s a tree full of gossiping sparrows,

two ladies gardening and chatting in foreign tongue………..animatedly !

Garden party notices,

a discarded tangerine peel,

Fly tipping posters.

In summer, a man picks raspberries through the mesh.

A suited gent winds up his hosepipe, duty done for another hot day.

Two women with watering cans gather arms full of bay leaves.

Four guys lime in the shade, while a strapping lad with T-shirt on his brow, plays keepie-uppie with a football.

Flush faced construction workers share Tuskies in the evening cool.

Empty flowerpots roll around like tumbleweed in autumn.

I spot a spent firework on a stick and the appearance and disappearance of a tin of Dulux II Trade weather shield primer  

and a tub of John Innes compost.

There`s a sloppy bag full of pink shiny high heels, viciously spiked.

A box of broken eggshells.

A sofa.

On a singular day of snow

the street is under a blanket of stellar white.

It muffles, discarded nappies and

one empty litre bottle of Carlos 3rd Brandy,

with pristine fluff.