Lunch


A sky as grey as a neglected net curtain, no wind to stir it.
Sat on the front steps, a bone coloured bowl balanced on a knee: yesterday's stew. Pewter spoon and extra pepper.
Bird shapes on branches gather, clatter. Up on the lawn, the old wood cart is mis-parked, and chairs askew, and teapots full of rainwater line up on the pallet table.
Dew beads linger on grass.
Cat, rapt by this proximity of stew, creaks over, sits on the drive. Sparkle in her age-cloudy eyes.
The spoon makes a pretty sound in the round bowl, chasing the last burst of tomato. One aromatic pepper dot decorates licked teeth.



Comments

Geo. said…
What a Wonderlandish party! I shall imagine myself there in my mad hat.
Lisa Southard said…
Always room at the table :-)
Suze said…
A very merry Unbirthday.

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