The Pumpkin Eater

‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
had a wife but couldn’t keep her.
Put her in a pumpkin shell,
and there he kept her, very well.’

Will you listen to the wind, Miranda?
The aspen scrapes the window
and the front-gate rattles on its bolt.
Needs must, I’ll stake the gladioli,
bring in the flowerpots from the sill.
You don’t hear me though, Miranda –
your mind’s a wall. Time was,
I could predict your every thought;
these days I have my doubts
you think on anything at all.

So, let the aspen scrape the pane,
and the front-gate rattle on its hinge;
let the gladioli bend to the whim
of the wind...let the pots fall
and smash, if they feel inclined.
And will I care, Miranda? No,
I won’t. All I care about is here,
inside this house, inside this room.

I could make pumpkin pie for tea.
Would you like that Miranda?
And do you love me, still? The man
you married all those years ago...
the one whose name you’ve no idea of.
Silly, I know, but I kid myself
you said, ‘Yes’... in that one brief
shining moment when the air
trembled, for a second, then held
its breath.