Beyond the scratchy skirt of yews
my ambling dog has nosed, a couple lies
engrossed, half-screened (have they skipped work?)
pleasure-seeking in the dusty earth.
High-shine, two cans askew in grass have given them away.
Flies graze,
a self-effacing moth lifts itself
off scabious, those pale, heavy-headed flowers.
At Kew one August we lay likewise side by side
on tombs, behind a pall of rhododendrons. That afternoon
a pride of pregnant women bloomed
along the gravel paths, juggernauts of happy families
drove swags of babies past.