After the rain has ceased,
black slates glisten like polished marble,
crows, prattling,
perch on chimney stacks,
knobbly branches twist in the wind.
My mind drips words,
can I write a poem today?
Will the chores wait?
In the pan, two eggs sizzle, pop,
a hint of warmth rising,
while tea cakes bloom in the oven,
cheese and red sauce mingle.
My kitchen fills with the smell of frying.
I sit at the table and contemplate.
From my dusty head,
I shake off the dreams, lingering;
daydreams of my dear
my daughter, radiant in white,
her smile blooming like spring.
Yet marriage,
murmurs compromise.
Should I wish for that,
as laundry looms,
mountains of worry.
Where life dispels fantasies
of richness and health.
Domesticity dawdles.
Please put the universe on pause,
so I can sit and compose.
Oh no!
Below
mould encroaches —
pull the table out,
fetch the yellow gloves.
My knees
protest,
yet I linger,
musing as poets do.
But, underneath the blackness grows,
a continual curse,
a battle,
unhappy with self
when the words won’t flow.
In the newly bright morning
I long to wring words from the deluge,
but I’m caught
between duties
and the urge to create.
The downpour has dried in patches like paint.
As I sit at the table my mind clears,
smell of fresh Spring air
fills the kitchen
as the mould spray
dissipates
my egg butty tastes
deliciously bad.
Reflections in hand, I’m free to write verse.
‘Chores are the curse of the universe’.