Dorothy Pope

and from the summerhouse, the viewis, first, that unmarked area of grass,where stood the Air Force quarters of a fewof England’s Few, that rings with silent laughs,our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond —the orchard’s gorgeous blossom, later fruitfor village children and the Anderson,now apple store. Then, topiary in privetand in box; my sculptor’s hands can seethe shape inside the mass. By Perkins’ grave,a clump of perfect daffodils blow freeof London’s politicking stress. I havea cherished weekend refuge where I come,say, ‘Hello House. Restore me.’ I am home.

Ironically, they rode a tandem bike,that warring pair, though any two less like to live in tandem would be hard to find.He rode in front. She took the seat behind. They quarrelled as they puffed up Devon hills.‘You pedalling?’ ‘Of course!’ ‘I swear it feels as if you’re not,’ he snarled. He spoke his mind.She held her tongue sometimes thinking it kind and wiser, since the sidecar held their child,a two-year-old aware and watchful of their wild abuse. Inevitably came the rift.The front, the back, the sidecar came adrift. He took their money, bought himself a carand left. The woman panicked, married far from suitably — again — sank without trace.The infant washed up in a Home for Waifs.

Mid-August, even so, a faint hint, giftof autumn momentarily — a sweetsoft breeze. With slender branches trees entreata sift of foliage. Their fingers lift.Then half a dozen paper leaves adriftblow in and dance round summer-sandalled feet,though brief, their restlessness another fleetingsign of imminent and massive shift.The season’s on the very cusp. We’ll seethe great sun climb and midday will be hotbut morning now, as evening later, sparesrelentless sultriness, humiditywith temperate caress. Long-shadowed autumn’sin the wings. The old earth cools, prepares.