IHoused away, she waits on him.Picks anagylpta petals,lifts carpet to watchsilverfish dance,thrive on nowtbut damp and dirtand as a polecat slipsbetween t-shirtand torso, the metal blindsnaps shut.Outside, Lascelles,where milk’s skimmedand little girlsget dragged upin hand-me-downers,flat upon flatoccupied by darkness.Where roaches are spentscratchcards, mad cows fallin heat or tip loosefrom public houses.She’ll chalk a fenceLascaux.Leggy horses lostto a corrugateflash of rain,as the hooves pull inat Honeypot Lane.                               IIThere’s a rifle in the cupboardand the dogs need walked.Back and forth a ball drumsthe house wall, edging the urnthey can’t agree what to do with,forward. The girls rideleaning gravestoneslike ponies,their mouths stuckwith brambling,nettle-stung anklesgrazed giddiup green.They smash beesfrom jam jars, run,as the lads kick the ballagainst the wallwhere he’s sleeping,till his fists screamon the glassand they flush outlike so many beesor game, back to the Moor,where porn pulps open crotcheson lamp-posts which blushand blink as the buses come inasking for exact changeand leave without passengersor windows.                               IIIWeather walks toward the house,or her grandfather,smart as a peg in his old straw hatand breezing with the fallen May.The street saw him coming,biggest bloke in the steel millhis gold rings hooking sunlightas he hands a cane by the crook.This is a branch to truss a tent on,or curve a beck from bank to bank.His sloe arm moves her still,lifts till vaulting, she stamps the air.