Poem for Waltham Forest

We asked Poet Emma Hammond to write a poem inspired by the responses of our 'Poet Tree' at the launch of our bid at Walthamstow Garden Party. The poem celebrates the people and makers of our borough.

Poem for Waltham Forest

In the centre of a thistle is a bird, arched

in against itself & mirrored outward onto a garden.

Craft for the people, for the love of work, from

everywhere these tendrils, these arms around all.

The kids in the Glittering Plains, thrown

into the air by Dads once drunk on Tors,

higher now for chubby legs and love-wide eyes,

currants in buns, the softest coils of wispy hair.

Parenting, like flair itself, the glowing

chrysanthemums of year on year, scribbled on

doorframes, an art. Heaven: a given, in a park

of gypsies, homemade and feathered in tarot.

This part a manuscript, ornate in colours,

burnt into the borough with glass. Voices from

chisels and isles, in charcoal or yarn, that climb

the walls in neon paint and burst through broken

paving. Gin and ale, songs that evaporate into

London, the illuminated East, mille-fleurs that

speak of marshes, fields - the distant alarm of a

Sparrow hawk, Whitethroats, Snipe.

Grove of welcome, wildflowers ply bees,

make honey to bomb our tongues. A seamstress

builds a costume from nests, so bites the bindweed

clean at the tip, the hornbeams twirl and dip,

while women bang hammers on metal. The plain

schmoozes it’s way through wood, the curves in

pathways, sanded to skin-right, the bulbs of an

armoire, the secret drawers of a man in bright jewels.

And there in the garden, amongst all of the making,

the tending of minds through Oz and sleeps,

is a fire that burns always in festival, redolent

in stories, of kisses and laughter,

sap-hard for the next, the perhaps of communion.

A treasure map of coffee, a vine on a trellis,

wisteria, hops, the fattest grapes to dream into

wine, ivy that wraps around fresh-pillowed bread.

This sun that crashes into the market like a

meteorite and carries nickel from ancient spaces.

The need to marvel onwards and forge hearts

in excellent casts, stroke tiny heads and speak

in crayons, oils, spice, to join every dot

with buttons and plays, neat-highlight the

well trodden passages- a tapestry of knowing

across our yard of incredible riot.