On a Sunday, in the early evening,
and I hear this couple,
screaming constantly, enraged abuse.
I’m looking through hedgerows,
through blossoms –
purples and pinks and blues.
His hands are around her throat,
and her hands are in the air.
It’s a hard, hopeless slap –
and it’s sad.
The orchid blooms incessantly,
and the pot plants take in the autumn warmth
while the children watch TV.

Written by Jack Brewis