The Realtor said very few properties were this private.
True,
it was, like living in a small park – especially in summer,
step inside the gate and
disappear from view.
I was out the back – at the clothes line, hot
November sun
still an adolescent
the adult of January and February yet to flex muscles
but testosterone brimmed
feeling proud, how a farmer once described ram lambs.
Something caught…. slipped ..
dropping … regained
held in the mind’s palm. . . . turning it over..
familiar –
birds, traffic, construction … sounds
sound –
the gurgle of a baby known immediately to its mother
the soothe of the mother known to a baby.
The slap of door on frame
hushed – muffled, but… I’d know it anywhere.
They are in the conservatory
the door to inside ajar – it might have been me
two people
a young woman – smiling
and a youth unsure to run, or raise fists.
She is practised,
he, still learning.
It’s so hot she says, I was wondering if I could have water.
I oblige. She thanks me
and
nothing more is said, we both know the score –
I don’t inform . . . . and they won’t return.
Thieves’ honour
we’re all safe.
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry 