A Memoir of a Strange Woman

The november i met you, with its strange warm days and all that whisky, birds we watchd from a distance. You told me you were not really together, not any more. And in that small, quiet pub, our knees half touching, i believed you. In the blackness of my mind, all those other women writhed. The lifted rock, the roots exposed the pale horror of it all. It was platonic by then. But still you drew a curtain so the neighbours would not seethe. Strange woman in your front room while your wife was away. We sat in the field, and still you talked. There was something to your voice that was not regret