A solitary carnation
vased on the window ledge
behind / above the sink
(opened to the full,
its purple-hemmed, cream flounces,
unravaged yet by greying,
slippage or falling away,
bought several weeks ago
in the middle of your visit
with more of those, of course,
and some small roses
long since perished)
leans out towards me
(as I peruse its ruffles,
hands sudsed washing cups)
as if to kiss;
and I recall my jibe
that all tea drinkers that I knew (save C)
liked a tea-stained cup,
despite their otherwise excellent washing up -
and it is -
(and, of course my own is not that good,
as family do remark -
being careful here, you see);
so after this thorough cup-clean,
you might look like Bashful
(from Snow White and the Seven, of course)
wistful and plaintive: "Sugar's gone!"
Or, in your case, "Tea-stain's scrubbed away."
To which you replied, quite matter of factly,
"I think, Peter,
I am a lot, lot taller.
......................
Though I experience the pleasures of washing up daily, I hear you can starve or die of various inadequately treated diseases in America, and hey, who cares, but Obama et al, but you are bound to have a washing-up machine if you are in premises, rather than even an electric kettle, I am told. Please correct me If I am wrong.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PuisiIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
