Evening

and the homeward bus is lurching
from the brightly lighted station
into the twilight, dreaming world
of wintry garden suburbs.
Smoke’s in the air, and grass, and dinner.
The day goes out in a green sky
and the first star.

Soon the family men are heading
into their curving avenues,
smiling at the young girls passing,
soft as poppies in the night.
Keys turn in the fancy doors
and cymbal clap of saucepan lids
welcomes the hunter home.

The oldfashioned man in the turned-down hat
stumbles in at his laurel-dark gate
that warns of dogs long dead—
those were the days when the boys were young,
wore the lawn thin with cricket.
Dinner’s to get and telly to watch
before he lies in his widower’s bed.

Last off the bus, Miss Manifold,
the mainstay of her office,
with meat and vegetables in her bag
and tabloid murders for Mother,
who has sat all day in radioland,
knitting up little squares.

Now the empty bus rolls on
through the black suburban night.
The driver looks over his shoulder,
lights a fag and turns off the light.