She chooses her clothes in subdued colours
To suit a life rehearsed in the suburbs.
She rarely needs to appear in public-
Has no one to take her to the opera
Or out to a restaurant in the evening
While someone minds legitimate children.

His avenue paths are hung with lilac
Proud candles erect on the horse-chestnut
Laburnum dangling her gaudy earrings
Over into other people's gardens.
He has never dared to send her roses:
She buys herself flowers from street corners.

He comes to her flat while it is still light
And makes her curtain off the afternoon
So even then, she hardly sees his face.
Each week their liaison seems more unreal:
She raises her veil, the netted window-
Sees him vanish at the end of the street.

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