Sunday, 13 March 2016


Those kids will break that trampoline
or an arm; Margot’s roses are coming
along strong; the Fernandez are
rowing again—about what?; and Bob’s vintage
Mustang has had so many spare parts it’s
barely old but still he tinkers as she
kneels here naked in the window, aware
anyone could see her if they weren’t so
preoccupied, just looked up, as hands
tilt her hips just so and a
blunt tool expels the air from her lungs
in a fine mist on the windowpane
obscuring her from
prying eyes.

(Image used by kind permission of to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)