It is summer, and we in a house
That is not ours, sitting at a table
Enjoying minutes of a rented silence,
The upstairs people are gone. The pigeons lull
To sleep the under-tens and invalids,
The tree shakes out its shadows and grass,
The roses rove through the wilds of my neglect
Our lives flap, and we have no hope of better
Happiness than this, not much to show for love
But how we are, or how this evening is,
Unpeopled, silent, and where we are alive
In a domestic love, seemingly alone,
All other lives worn down to trees and sunlight,
Looking forward to a visit from the cat
by Douglas Dunn
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