I am pulling down the net curtains
in haste, the ones you hate.
I am clearing the space for
you to fill with washing
and tales of how things
are with you.
The nets are in my arms,
and your car is on
Daffodil Lane,
The smell of peat smoke,
roasted meat, wild flowers,
baked bread and now –
your perfume in my arms
In the bundle of nets I hold
(A poem from a few years ago when we nearly moved to a house with net curtains and our daughter was mortified, and I imagined living there and her coming home from college for the weekend)
No comments:
Post a Comment