Homity pie

and loss Poems That Make Grown Men Cry

House blended black

perfuses dust through the airing rack

Condensation

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

Teapottery

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.