Married Couple

She looks at a tree: it grows inside her.
He looks at a tree and climbs it, fells it,
robs it of its fruit.

If an ugly man passes, she looks
hurriedly away; he stares at him
as if at a chess problem.

She eats daintily, not convinced
she needs to; he passes over the table
like the Angel of Death.

She never knows where the money
comes from; he never knows
where it goes.

They treat life like a spider:
she's little Miss Muffet,
he's Bruce in his cave.

Do they know each other? It says something
of how much there is to know
since they're perfectly happy.

Only this proves he's not
a seal in love with a wren or
an orange on an apple tree.

We were given a brilliant calligraphy picture featuring this Norman MacCaig poem for our wedding - which was ten years ago today. The words always make me smile, especially the ending.

Happy anniversary Morag!