A seven-year itch
Has set in our marriage
Unable to tolerate each other
A cry for breathing space.
Love gone stale?
Like withered leaves
That fall off strong branches
With strength and resource in them to rejuvenate
A colourful spring
Hidden beauty of our brown Earth
Where all colours come from.
I would like to go to Moonar
On a honeymoon all by myself
With my poetry along for company
And think longingly of my husband at home
And miss him, and cry for him, and crave for him
So when I return, I will be a good wife
Noncrabby, nonnagging, nonnasty
Sobered and steady and ready to appreciate
And listen as he speaks of football matches and Governmental statistics.
