Sundays are out,
but he sends her pictures of his life:
the view from his window, a passing balloon,
the clutter on his desk, his wife
a ragged absence in the air they breathe;
a single hair; the lightest touch of fingertip in dust,
resolutely present, stealing every scene.
And all she can do is this: leave the screen,
and walk the empty streets alone,
past rows of closed shop windows where
all that she wants and needs will stay,
for months and months of Sundays.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah Willans would be
pleased to hear from you.