The sun begins its journey down.
I wonder if I met her once,
maybe the other side of the weekend.
I can’t believe she’s married
and still out with me.
In the sunlit fields and hay-barns,
the girls think about the boys all the time,
go from one to another.
She lives in the house without the upstair curtain.
Upturned boxes and litter in the garden.
Above the slanting roof up go the pigeons
and when she goes out she could be anyone’s.
I’ll be seeing her up the road when she returns.