are listening to The Neighbours fight,
You are sat on the deckchair leaning back to take in the heat and laughing, your mouth cracking open like two clouds splitting away to let a stream of sunlight fall out in uneven
giggles which tumble out into the garden.
I am lying down on the ground not caring about the grass stains which will be sinking into the
back of my white T-shirt
smiling at the sounds of content you are making.
talk very loudly. They shout.
The Man has returned from America.
The Girl has made him pesto pasta.
‘I don’t even like pesto’
are the words which are followed by a door slamming.
Your giggles erupt into delighted chortles
and my smile breaks open into a laugh.
in another brick house
joined onto yours
the one we see over the brick wall separating our grass from theirs,
The Neighbours are fighting.
I wonder if The Girl forgot he doesn’t like pesto.
Or if The Man used to and does not any more.
Or if when he was away he found something better than pesto and now can’t stand the sight of
in the garden
I am watching you laugh
but I am also watching our shadows -
the way they get chased up the brick wall as the sun sets, joining the ivy which creeps up over
into their garden.
Daylight is melting away,
the night sinking into us.