Each night I set the scene, knives, spoons, bowls

in the same order. The table

waits through our sleep for us to find

things in their place, and we do.

I know each morning

I'll feel the soft bulk of a grapefruit

in the hollow of my palm

with my left hand

slice open hoarded sunshine,

slipping the knife's curved blade

between pith and flesh. Winter or summer

I'll switch the light on, you'll bring in

the weather and the news

from the corner shop. Your tea

will cool in the stained pot.

Day to day the pattern renews

deepens in colour, texture, like the weave

of an unfinished carpet. Were it not

for the angry world I might forget

to be surprised by all this having.