Jo Shapcott Shrubbery

What’s that in the privet,
hurtling around the branches
and dead leaves? It’s one
of my spare hands, grubbing
through the bramble
for blackberries. It’s my old
trainers, dancing now they
are free of my feet. It’s my
poor little auntie tugging
at the twigs of her dementia.
It’s me, spinning inside
the brown foliage, laughing
and blink-squinting at every
here-gone, here-gone, here-gone
glimpse of the sun.