Sky scatters from the cherry blossom,

in their thousands they claim the space pink,

their endless, fluttering, clusters. 
The street gives itself to them, pollarded,

scarred trunks squat like ego-broken mystics. 
Pavements offer themselves up as a stage to all fallen things
and the cobbles dirt ride on their glamour.

The cafes, the shops, all bloom with those flowers, 
perhaps the scent of the flowers is there, somewhere

beneath the chronic petrol,

the thick laced perfumes of our consumption.
A cigarette burns in the hand of a supplicant boyfriend

kneeling before his girlfriend, phone in hand.

she is a live stream of a selfie, bubbling for all to see. 
Here is a crush of girls wanting to be seen with the trees. 
Arms around trunks, each other, duck-face kisses

in amongst that overwhelm of  blossom, girls 
wanting to be seen with nature, by nature, wanting it

inked into skin, and posted on Instagram, filter/no filter! to look at later

and count the likes.
Sightseeing wildness,

as if it wasn’t already inside them.