It was late afternoon,
She sat watching never come to Vincent Craine,
Under the wet weather swollen door
Never came.
She pressed her knee up
Underneath the wooden table,
As in her midriff
Dread flutters like the threat of love or pain
There was a bowl of fruit
Shrinking on the table by a rusting spoon.
And over the mist weary distant hills
Never came.
Through piles of wrecked cars,
From the stagnant pools of water,
From the abattoir flies
That swarm leech and crawl in Clamour Lane
She walked towards the door,
Pushed it open, and stood behind Vincent Craine,
He leaned back and locked his arms around her
Her thin awkward legs,
They watched the sunlight
Slide in cold squares across the walls
They watched the sunlight
Slide in cold squares across the walls