The Fragility of Porcelain

The sun’s dying rays, pierce
the blinds in their intensity.
On the horizon, thunderheads
build, and humid at it is, I wish
this afternoon would never end,
lying, head on his lap, on the settee.

We speak of many things...
and yet his face, with its valleys,
peaks and troughs tells me
what he doesn’t say.
“So, what was she like?
Your first wife?” I ask him.

He comes alive, as I rise
to top-up our cups of tea
and ponder on the fragility
of porcelain and how I wished
his Kutani had less chips,
and that the side plates
had never been stitched.

‘You would have liked her,’
he says. ‘In fact, I can hear
the arpeggio of her laughter
through your lips.’ It’s nice
to hear him reminisce; talk
of her. A thing he’s not done
since she died.

Amazing how a neck-rub,
some Darjeeling and, a batch
of cheese scones, can transport one,
all the way from sleepy Eastbourne
and a passing summer storm,
to a steamy monsoon in the Tropic
of Capricorn.