and in the shop…
It began as she started glancing
at another man’s dark lashes.
As she noticed languid slow-clover lips,
new pallid yarrow hands, narrow hips,
shrunken as a defeated moon sliding down the sky.
She wanted to kiss him.
In that darkness her husband stopped
watering the garden.
He let Bramble and Black Bryony stretch,
let Dog-weed choke.
He stuck firm to his chair, kept watching the news.
It was when tumble-weed blew
through the living-room, as the windows blasted open,
that she stared, accusing him
from the garden.
Becoming gigantic, he spat fury
at the television, at the pale man
who pointed his little Bird-weed fingers at graphs,
predicting floods and tidal waves;
I told you this would happen.