In the heart of my close friendI cannot see the sun setting, but
I can see its warm gold tingeing a dowdy wood-pigeon
which bobs on a green wave of foliage
near the top of the graceful hornbeam, swaying
lightly in the cool breeze of a Moseley June evening.
Sipping wine on the terrace, half-listening to Hercule Poirot
confounding Captain Hastings, I lean
against the door while Telewest pumps its digital stream
through the hi-fi bought on Constitution Hill, where the Indian man said
It was terrible about Heather - I am sorry for your loss.