Vincent Craine

It was late afternoon

She sat watching never come to Vincent Crane

Under the wet weather swollen door

Never came

She pressed her knee up

Underneath the wooden table

As in her midriff

Dread flutters like the thread of love or pain

There was a bowl of fruit

Shrinking on the table by a rusty spoon

Over the mist weary distant hills

Never came

Through piles of wrecked cars

>From the stagnant pools of water

>From the abattoir flys

That swarm leech and crawl in Clamour Lane

She walked towards the door

Pushed it open and stood behind Vincent Crane

He leaned back and locked his arms around her

Thin awkward legs

They watched the sunlight

Slide in cold squares across the walls