The Promenades Of Our Grandmothers' Eyes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The end of sad abuse washes across the yard;
This is the end of it,
Harmless- so obtuse- and the girls that were listening for
It, have finally gone inside-
The paper trees are on a holiday,
Purpled insects warmed inside: they too will see
New bodies in new beds-
When the heart beats forth another year, lavishing for
Likeminded chastity- and the promenades
Of our grandmother’s eyes proudly following our
Married skins.