Flip flops and jam, the rural idyll

(Nearly 6 am on Miracle hunt day. I have been wearing flip flops since I could walk and can run backwards in them.)

Inspiration is a secondary
Response. Stripped down this
Experience centres on the
Simplicity of appreciation

Before I think to tidy up I take
A survey of the house-mess
An appraisal of status, if
Not in flux, it fails

I point out the dog paw shapes
On the oven door; dogs observe
Emotion, not language, or old evidence
Dog is happy, I am not cross

A motto on my cheap flip-flops reads
You Can Never Have Too Many Shoe
It’s not logical but the fun makes it beautiful
A stamp of flippant glamour on rubber

The indoor woodlice hurry
Gather under the bath
Slug, on tiles above, wanders
Alone, equally sure of purpose

From the cooking to the brewing
Kitchen, coffee odour lingers
Mingles into damp cottage, savoury
Sour wet dog, onion, earth and spice

The stuck clock hand repeats
One tick, in the quiet house
At this undiscovered hour
Airlocks blup, snores oscillate

Cow herders finish first milking
The machines rest, the cattle are
Gated back in the field, chewing
Grass, with comfortable udders

Pie-packing does not stop
The factory is always midshift
Pastry rolling, cut, pressed
Filled, boxed, transported

Bread pushes down into toaster
By means of a lever, electric heat
Crisps each slice. Butter waits
The fridge is packed with jam


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