Grimbeau

I cook some

runner beans

and

put the fish

pie in

the top oven.

Thirty minutes at 180c.

Meantime She arrives.

I ate and now I sweat.

The pie was

impressive,

the beans too populous.

Soon I will shower.

The afternoon is

oppressive.

Thundery,

heavy air.

It is three seventeen.

The dog barks.

There was something.

What was it?

The pepper,

the potatoes…

and something else.

French beans:

Harry Covert’s.

Speckled with blackfly.

A portent of tempest.