At seven
Mrs Easter kisses husband adieu
(sweet rocket zooming to London, and a life beyond the grave)
she pegs out Monday washing
(shirts loom in the corpse-cool air, the souls of the departed fondly wave)
Every house is blind and grey
The starving gulls begin to curse the day.
The Blackwater breeze begins to pant and
A funnel of air surges the channel
Boiling over the whispering marshland
Corkscrewy swerving black barn and hamlet,
Excitement is booming the flint-grey flood, like
Cold fingers on scalp as her hair streams up.
The north sea gale goes straight to her pelt
Oh, spread out your arms and zoom up to heaven
Mrs Easter
At seven.
1975