Between the Lines
Millie’s pet rabbit escaped yesterday
through that hole in the hedge
but it didn’t go far. It’s back safe and sound.
Six years she’s had it – black with grey smudges
and a pink button nose. Millie’s tall
as a beanpole – like her dad, I suppose.
The garden gate squeaks, the cistern
still leaks and that duck-shaped damp patch
on the wall by our bed has returned once again.
The muntjaks still bark in the meadow at night
and the swallows too, have come home to the barn
for the fourth or even fifth summer running.
It’s been a gem of an evening, really warm,
but the sun’s going down as I write …
sort of pale green at the edges
orange at the centre.
The sky, I mean, Sam. Not the sun.
Just my butterfly mind as you’d call it.
I haven’t changed a bit as you can tell.
I’m still daft as a brush.
Today, took a walk in the pasture. The celandine’s
seeded there now. You said it might, one of these days.
The vetch too, at long last is spreading.
High above my head a skylark trilled Mahler’s 5th
and the cat’s got worms … again.
Incidentally, the kitchen tap still drips and drips.
So … I’m just sitting here, writing to say
that this week, dear Sam, the news is no news.