There is a man on the other side of the white wall;
clipclipclip of shears and the scrittling swoosh of falling leaves,
he hums the hymn of yesterday and thinks of scything sheaves of wheat
and woodfires where women stir pots of meat and gravy.

On a sunlit carpet floor, where the smell of furniture wax lingers,
a sleeping dog sighs and scrabbles after a rabbit running in her dream;
she shifts position slightly and keeps an ear cocked in case
a squeaking cupboard door summons her to fetch a biscuit.

The woman at the ironing board shifts her weight and makes a floorboard
creak again when she stoops to lift the jug and flicks her hand,
making a satisfying, sharp phtsss! as the water hits the hot metal
and she ponders the possibilities of corned beef on toast.

The angry driver changes gears and hurtles over melting tar,
screaming past suburban walls his peripheral vision reads as distance covered,
his thumping stereo leaves morose thuds of bass lingering briefly in his wake;
the dog yawns a halfhearted growl and decides to return to her rabbit.

©Cindy Taylor 2009