A soft splash in the pond, the moon trying
to rise above the sycamores that have grown
too large for back gardens. They hold her with their
green, leafy fingers, a prisoner in their crowns.
There is still a faintly glowing horizon. The sun
is loath to give up his dominion to the wool-headed
moon who spins dreams and stories half-remembered,
leading us astray with the glorious possibility
of painting outside of all lines. 

The mosquitos have come out to play, too close for comfort.
I can see them, tiny wings glimmering in the first
moonlight that steals its way through the sycamores.
Another splash in the pond, a dog’s soft howl
in a garden beyond, the cat slinking through the hole
in the fence, just next to the little door we kept
for our small children to visit the neighbours, our friends.

I can hear Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ across
the park-like square where all the gardens meet,
possibly coming from the open back doors
of the young percussionist, a tiny young woman
I met when we were both out walking
the dogs. She said she came to London with ‘The Who’.
Hers a mighty, kindly mastiff, mine a flirty licorice allsorts.

Thinking of little Miss Muffet.
Why do the vets shave the spot
and sterilize it before they plunge in the deadly poison?
I wipe my eyes. No, I am not crying for the dog.
I am crying for the end of a love that was supposed
to last until ‘death us do part’.
Will he have me put down?
He did say that me wanting to leave was probably
due to a hormone imbalance while menopausal.
Do the kids know that Melinda is not a friend?

The evening continues to wind its serenity around
my sadness. I am moving gently on the swing we made
for the kids when they were little. They are out partying, 
making music, flirting, trying out their new adulthood.

I shall just have to make sure their cars are home
when I wake up in the early morning hours. 
                        

where the hole goes when it’s closed,
the space which you displaced by living,
the knot once it's untied,
the love when it no longer fills me.