See her in the blue bay window
staring at the distant Mournes, their long
miles of dappled farmland curling off
then folding back
to where she stands. Behind,
her table’s spread with fresh soda farls,
dollops of butter, a bowl of cream.
Will she stay here forever? She can’t
imagine what’s in store.
See her in jalousie windows
staring at the blistering river,
a fret of children at her hemline
like open beaks
in a nest of splinters.
Guttersnipes in goatskins sit and drool
at her door, while he’s on safari.
Will he come back? She squeezes her ring,
prays he’ll find his way home.
See her in double-hung windows
staring at the rose bushes below
which he digs and trims, the years turning,
catalogued and aligned.
His bald head shakes as he tugs weeds, snips
buds and laughs, full-throttle, in the wind.
Will he get up from the flowerbed?
She waits, Earl Grey in hand.