.

It is summer, and we are sitting in a house
that is not ours, sitting at a table
enjoying minutes of rented silence,
the upstairs people gone.The pigeons lull
to sleep the under-tens and invalids,
the three shakes out its shadows to the grass,
the roses rove through the wilds of my neglect.
our lives flap, and we have no hope of better
happiness than this,not much to show for love
but how we are, or how this evening is,
unpeopled,silent and where we are alive
ın a domestic love,seemingly alone,
all other lives worn down to trees and sunlight,
looking forward to a visit from the cat.