Wednesday, April 12, 2017
The dishes are stacked casually
in the rack by the window.
leans against the glass
and some plates and a frypan rest
like flat piled slate
at the base of a tor, falling
into a jumble of mugs and glasses.
A pair of scissors, open, stands guard
over cutlery dropped anyhow - the glint
of tempered steel exposing a knife.
The dish brush is starting to look ragged.
Outside, after days of rain, the weather
is trying to lift. Inside, the ground
is shifting again.
I look at that knife
and remember its call
5 March 2017