The Table
The table, made of time smoothed pine,
And faintly marked by spills of wine.
It once stood in my grandad's house
And now at last it stands in mine.
Two candles of the deepest red
From the old tin box beneath the bed
They've been there since before the war.
Well, that was what my mother said.
Two china plates of plain white bone.
Two napkins folded as a cone.
Two knives and forks reminding me
That normally I eat alone.
The cutlery's from a special set
My mother had but never let
Us use for meals in case they scratched.
I use them now without regret.
I'm not well practised as a cook.
Gougere and mushrooms (from a book)
With peas, asparagus, Jersey Royals
I can't resist another look.
She'd said that she would come at eight
(I'm conscious of my heart beat rate)
And then a cab comes in the drive
She's only fifteen minutes late.
I start with soup from M & S
And serve Gougere without a mess.
She eats it all with lots of wine.
I'm nervous so I eat much less.
The coffee follows peach and cream
She talks, I answer in a dream.
I can't resist a green eyed blond
But if I touch her will she scream
Her taxi comes, the driver's paid,
I bid farewell to gorgeous maid
And leave the washing up undone,
But still, the table did get laid.