The Widow’s Dream

by Martin Reed

Downstairs, she feels a sudden shift of air.
Rustling the fresh paper, he lets it rest;
Its great slack sheets enfold his lap like sails,
Near the steaming kettle, the loaf of bread,

The draining-board. He’s like an architect
With plans, his mouth a straight line holding breath,
He’s concentratedly construing clues.
She wrestles sheets and fights to leave her bed,

To rush, this moment, down the stairs.
She must beguile from him the Somerset Gazette
Before he reaches that long page of names
And comes upon the story of his death.