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.