WHITEWASH

She loves me:

for such is signified by the symbol of a heart
initial flanked, hers and mine,
graven by a nail in grimy plaster
with a screech to set my teeth in spasm.
I lack the skill to make a balanced heart -
my lobes all lop-lolly: it seems to me the lesser lobe
denotes a lesser love to the bad sad side.
I seek parity and so I interpose an equals sign
between the names. A futile gesture,
though years will pass before I recognise
inherent inequalities of love.

The soot-stained whitewash flakes and falls,
dusts a close–clung flower on the wall,
plaster-fastened and yellow-gold.
Her mouth a little ‘o’ she flutes
‘dents de lion’ all grandiose and frenchified.
Diminished I retort ‘piss-the-bed’ the local slang.
Dandelion … teeth of a lion! Shaped like lemon pegs
in circles and more circles? She shakes her head
and with a grin traces the margin of the leaf.
I see. Dentate margin … toothed edge. I see.
She muses that the yellow whorls will shape up
to wispy seeds all in a gauzy globe while I’m away:
a lovers clock to blow – she makes another moue –
all kissy-face. I can’t resist a kiss and so I do.
She whispers we can “huff and puff”
[and kiss] when I return.

On my return
the beast who bids me call him Dad,
to camouflage a month of betting-shops and booze
relates the local gossip with a grin;
my girl has gone, a moonlight flit,
and to justify himself
pretends how busy he has been.
The yard is white and pristine bright,
all promises erased, commitments covered
and finally wildflower free
All-in-all it seems, for now at least,

She loves me not.