Around the side veranda, just down
from their bedroom window, she sits
on the old stone step, leaning
forward, arms folded across knees,
head heavy on arms, face hidden.
Her body shakes.
The blue sheets from his bed
hang on the single clothesline
above her. The pot plants
are tinder dry, orange flowers
from the creeper running along
the railing lie on the ground in
rough procession, crumpling slowly.
The side gate squeaks, another visitor. She
lifts her head, takes a deep breath.
The Day After
1 February 2015