Washing Up

Hand plunged deep
Into foamy, disarrayed, cleanest of all messes.
-Fresh, citrusy, lukewarm-
Stings her scratched up knuckles.
Tired fingers handle thickly cut plates
and wooden spoons
-which don’t reflect the soft light
settling over the hazy muddied heath land.
Darkness seeps into the ramshackle kitchen,
wafting around the orange lights,
the weak glow of a comfortable evening.
She reaches out,
is handed another plate
scattered with remains of a hearty meal
and memories of satisfied groans.
Little clouds of bubbles settle upon
Her woollen jumper,
Folded apron,
Weary yet contented heart.
Skin brushes against skin
-Innocently subtle
Shy smiles
betray the beauty of the moment.
She wishes she could freeze
everything as it is.
With the kittens
weaving in and out of the chair legs,
the water spilling onto carpeted floor,
with the warmth
of temporary perfection.