The trouble is - I always prefer the first wives -
Small, anxious and kind; but never as rich;
The first husband, part Lithuanian,
By the thorn fire, snapping blue at the hedge;
Or the first pony, who would not jump,
But whickered each morning, nose nudging the door;
The dog called Scruffy; rough grass they will pave,
The bulb-scattered border, dug like a grave.
If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.