In my cottage kitchen
I arrange a soiree.
Exuberant colours of ideas
swirl in kaleidoscope patterns
of strawberry, citrus and damson.
I bear no guilt in omitting sleazy shades
of over-zealous rosehips, ripe before their time.
Next, I plan the attendance of immaculate white tablecloths
borrowed from a maiden aunt.
I will drape them over burned-oak tables, their legs askew -
warped by weather. I am pedantic
in ensuring that their undersides
will not be displayed.
At that moment, the kitchen window slams
in a fit of furious wind.
A visit from a jealous lover,
or my vengeful father.
My journal turns pages in the draught.
Meanwhile, on the outer sill,
a family of sycamore leaves gather.
They nudge the glass
like ghosts of lost rats.
I take this as a sign,
and carry on with final preparations -
choosing the elitest of guests.
Finally, I will write, in Verdigris ink,
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Andrea Bowd would be pleased to hear them.