Sunday Morning

Bone china floral pattern cups with curlicue handles on deep saucers, with matching side-plates on white lacy doilies, laid out on a blindingly immaculate linen tablecloth. In the middle, a long-spouted teapot wearing a knobbly, knitted woollen coat sits on a gleaming chrome-plated stand. But all the attention is drawn to the three-tier, silver-framed cake-stand, with its abundance of fondant fancies in yellows and pinks and whites and blues, each with a matching floral frosted topping. And on the bottom tier, carefully marshalled stacks of dainty, triangular, crust-removed white sandwiches with their cargo of ham and tongue and chicken and potted meat. Sunday morning ritual, ordered and reliable as a train running on time in a time when they did. And each week, the be-on-your-best-behaviour wonder of children allowed to play at grown-ups, obediently sitting up straight in the dark brown bentwood, wicker-seated chairs. And from the kitchen, the music of pots and pans clattering to the quavering soprano of a wordless song from my grandmother signalling that all is well in her world.

◄ Seashore Summer

Painting ►


Profile image

Trevor Alexander

Sat 23rd Mar 2019 19:52

Thanks. ? It was written in a workshop for prose poetry - hence no line breaks. I might try another version.

Profile image

Frances Macaulay Forde

Sat 23rd Mar 2019 15:24

I do agree with Cynthia though; why no lines?
Your words are begging for space to breath, for us to feel their weight and take a moment to appreciate their total beauty from all sides...
Just another unasked-for opinion.
So much respect...

Profile image

Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 23rd Mar 2019 10:26

Lovely! Superb ending. The idea and the language are delightful.

Any reason why you haven't made 'lines'? It would work splendidly. I think the open spacing would make the different images scintillate with individual power. And yet, still be a 'whole' which I'm sure you want.

Just an unasked for opinion, with respect always. LIke - we were having a cuppa together at the kitchen table. And talking, sharing - poetry.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message