by Eve Jackson

The pressure never alters in our house:
he taps the glass each morning
to remind the golfer in mid-swing to get on with it,
the pink buds posing on the branch be done with blossoming,
falling leaves, swept up and binned;
as for the umbrella, open wide and be of some use or better still
clamp shut on the harried little man who’s about to whinge.
The pressure never alters in our house
whether he is there or not
his presence demands we tidy our voices away
leaving only webs woven to catch our failings in.
One look at mother and our opinions cease mid-swing:
look of someone caught in a downpour,
as if marriage should have come with a weather warning.