Wednesday, April 12, 2017

The Dishes


The dishes are stacked casually
in the rack by the window.
A breadboard
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

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