Poem: ‘Cousins’
Alan Jenkins, 4 October 2001
A Sunday at home, since I still called them that, the house, the garden and the patch of lawn in front long gone to weeds and waist-high grasses that I crawled round, hacking wildly with the shears he’d once wielded, thick with rust now, blunt and useless, while she poked at flowerbeds or sat marooned in a deckchair and wiped her glasses that had misted with her hot flush, or with tears...