I watch the family sitting outside, the young
woman in red trousers, the young man
with the dark eyes, and opposite him their daughter
leans forward in her buggy, her eyes the same
doubt and desire. He breaks off a little of his
cake, and gives it to the child, she
pushes it into her mouth and all the time
her eyes watch his face, her pleasure that he’s tasting
just what she’s tasting. I watch them all, I think
when I have a child I’ll cut her hair
like that, a sloping fringe and then I remember
I won’t have a child. There is this
habit of feeling the response first then a moment
later, remembering. Once you asked me
if I was pregnant and I had to turn
my head away from you in my highbacked chair
I rested my head against the old brocade
upholstery the cold
pattern against my cheek. How long
does it go on like this, I wonder:
the heart refusing to hear the mind’s
evidence? The bus
tilts down the hill towards the city, the sky
saxe-blue and darkening rubs out the spires
the tower blocks, the bright
transmitter over at Crystal Palace the hills
Telegraph Hill Herne Hill and grey beyond
the Weald the South Downs out of sight the sea.