She is built like a housekeeper;
none of that elegance and grace,
that long dusky neck,
that dark burning eye.
He turns away, turns back,
looks at her - but briefly.
Prosaic, sturdy,
of heavy-footed peasant stock,
she is dressed in serviceable white
-
smoothed down over her ample
breast.
He pretends interest
in a scatter of blown daffodils.
She is placid, dependable,
unruffled by this new situation.
He walks nonchalantly away,
sneaking an over-the-shoulder
glance.
She looks about her, all interest;
she lifts her head -
a friendly blue eye,
a quietness of talking,
the occasional remarks
unexceptional,
undemanding,
lightly uttered.
He looks at the green hills.
She waits - there is no hurry...
He stretches his wings
and proposes marriage.
I think she will accept.
I think my gander will be happy
again.
(April,
1991)
