These leaf-plucking hands
are practised
and fast because they're practised.
Mini's eyes are riveted on
the breast high bush
her heart is elsewhere though
Mini's leaf-plucking hands are fast
but that much is habit
We don't get Mini's tidings
to the estate
the Mini at her meal
is lost in the tangle
of the crowding leaves
Not her tidings in the expert fingers
not in her slander waist
not even in the smile
of her pomegranate teeth
not even in her pointed breasts
when one finds Mini
in the darkness of the leaf-house
that is by habit
Somewhere in the unaccustomed
alien moments of leisure
Mini looks around vaguely, distracted
Mini's tidings are fuel at the factory
and spiral up the chimney. [PA]