The Three Sisters
They come on Sundays now,
touch their long dark hair into place
as they slide out of the emerald Clio,
wave, blow kisses, to their mother,
dance down the steps into the hill-side house
where once they played, and wept, and grew.
Today the old car bucks and whirrs
at the intricacies of turning-spaces
as its driver mimes a greeting
to a social-worker, neighbour,
who stays a moment on her doorstep,
thinks 'Perhaps a conversation...'
Others notice through their windows,
remember how they miss the siblings,
wonder what the mother does
while the daughters are indulged and feted
by their father and the dark-haired girl-friend
who joined him from the on-line chat-room
after his family had moved out.
cara march 2002
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