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Sun & Soup
You hold the spoon
over the tureen
watching the soup
drip back with a plop.
You know Francis
will enter soon,
and stand watching
over you, him being
master of the kitchen,
wondering if you had
dipped your finger
and tasted the soup
with your tongue
and say, I hope you
haven’t dipped your finger
in and tasted, it isn’t
the done thing;
and he’d give you
such a look, as if you would,
as if Mother had not
taught you kitchen manners
with its dos and don’ts;
and as you look up
at the high windows,
sunlight leaks through
the coloured glass pane
throwing its golden finger
across the tureen’s hold.
poem
by
Terry Collett
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