To His Daughter
A little girl sits on the wall
Colouring something on the other side.
The wind shines her hair as she holds up
A flapping paper to my window.
What is on the paper I don't know.
The hornbeam bends over near her head.
Its two-coloured leaves are like her hair.
The Couple Upstairs
Shoes instead of slippers down the stairs,
She ran out with her clothes
And the front door banged and I saw her
Walking crookedly, like naked, to a car.
She was not always with him up there,
And yet they seemed inviolate, like us,
Our loves in sympathy. Her going
Thrills and frightens us. We come awake
And talk excitedly about ourselves, like guests.