Our eyes meet in the sun-room windows
as cows decimate the hedgerow gap,
reporting in for windfall apples.
In a skipped chair, nearing prescribed sleep,
Mrs Dowd fears the unfamiliar expanse of her bed.
Murmur of slippers on exhumed quarry tiles,
stealing past while we’re box-set immersed,
she’s roused by a copper kettle, the flaring siren
of an infinite train sparking dark fields.
Sunken tracks snake tandem across the lane,
pulsate as a junction signal submits to green.
The crossing barrier lifts for nothing in sight.
Unsure why she is clutching the strainer,
what that whistling means, tea grows a trembling skin.
Stray globs of milk curdle on the counter.
Boiling water settles, the sound
of someone breathing through their teeth,
a falling, hollow tree.
Architect’s plans yellow in a sideboard drawer.
Colour-coded keys dangle on larder hooks.
The engine of the kitchen splutters and dies.
Meddling with trip switches, window locks,
the auctioneer pours away mouldy tea,
mops up sour milk, answers the door.
Lying in, first light affronting the shutters,
Mrs Dowd knows by the bedsprings he’s back,
beams caressing eyelids gently as fingertips.
Now we all look out from the sun-room windows,
see the cows assembling at the electric wire,
waiting patiently for the woman to appear.
Published in Abridged
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