Janet Charman

late Sunday
sudden sunlight
pales the screen

he hauls the curtains closed
in time to see
the locals chuck their first half
advantage
in the mud

she hips the child
boils the jug

in booted turf below the line
there’s the flash of
fallen wash

she passes him the sodden squaller
races out
under black pink fronted cloud
to drag what’s dry off the wire

then the rain
hung high above the naps
makes its first lolloping drops

in the hot room
the naked baby
kicks her heels up
on the table

what can she make of dark throated tulips
droop above her

tries her smile on one

© Janet Charman

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Last updated 11 May 2001