Homity pie

and loss Poems That Make Grown Men Cry

House blended black

perfuses dust through the airing rack


welds tissue paper chain creations

to the window


Biscotti crumbs

sit in the rhythm of zills and drums

Crannies and nooks – oldfangled alcoves all lined with books

Each stair a creak

whitewashed elm treads (more shabby than chic)

to the first floor


An hour that wiles

appliquéd spoons over fused glass tiles

Artisan froth –

decoupaged bakeware and wire-stitched cloth

Twisted tie-dyes

self-consciously lure bemused, tired eyes

through the window


Pain reminding

a Nitemare Hippy Girl rewinding


lids hinge rattling, glazed toast-tottery

My cup is cold,

my hands wouldn’t hold; your tip has rolled

down through the floor


Pith to ponder

thoughts gather together and wander

back through the door.