This poem is about something I can clearly explain,
our twenty-third year in this house,
the laburnum, again, filling our bedroom window
with its solar brilliance.
We met Graham outside, on the street.
He said “didn’t you hear about Evelyn, (his wife),
we buried her last Saturday.
I looked at your house, you were away.”
I am in bed. My wife,
her arm casually across me, is sleeping.
I am looking at the laburnum;
I look at it like this every year.