On a Sunday, in the early evening.
I hear them, screaming.
I’m looking through hedgerows,
through blossoms,
purples and pinks and orange.
His hands around her throat,
her hand in the air,
and it’s a hard slap, and it’s sad,
and the orchid blooms incessantly,
while the pot plants
take in the soft, autumn warmth
and the children watch TV.

Jack Brewis