You rest the mug down: not a cup on a saucer,
An honest mug, remnants of tea now cold.
The kitchen window opens out before you,
An untidy garden, three deck chairs,
Recently mown. Sunlight cuts across
The sideboard, turns it golden. In
A second the idea will pass you by, you want
To snapshot the scene, but better still the
Sense behind it all: the cars heard whispering
Outside in some distant street, the long
High white trail of a long-gone aeroplane,
Your partner still reading Sense and Sensibility,
Two unknown birds in song, sometime
In April. You wish to capture it, place it
Like a lime slice on the glass lip, one elegant
Action, and act of preservation
For something older than you, something more important
Than you, something beautiful. But it passes.
A car outside: one could kill you tomorrow,
And this would be your kitchen, these would be
Your chattels, your garden furniture,
The last known address, your abiding legacy,
And the moment itself never captured. There is
Always that risk: that you must die this way.