An olive branch, both given and apologised for
in the same breath. Like the gift of sécateurs
that will come to weigh upon the gardening gloves,

freckled with damp, between the French doors
and a row of annuals, until the Grundig runs down,
the day thickens, and a lamp in the living room flicks on.

This poem originally ran in the March 25, 2002 issue of the magazine.