A shot rang out. The bullet was not intended for me.
It embedded itself harmlessly into a tall sycamore.
(Harmlessly, that is, except for the tall sycamore.)
Gavin pocketed the gun. I was shaking like a leaf.
I seized his arm. ‘It’s over now,’ I stammered
‘There was nothing in it really. A moment of madness.’
I was lying and wondered if he could tell.
He gave no sign, so relaxing my grip we walked on.
‘You’d better have this,’ he said, and held out the poem.
‘But I’d rather you didn’t publish. Spare my blushes.’
I took it. ‘If not for me for Lucy’s sake.’
‘Trust me,’ I said and crumpled it into a ball.
Behind us, the sycamore rose swaying from the bushes,
Staggered across the ornamental lake
And collapsed against a wall.