poems by owen lucas

Kitchen, a varnished arena.
The wooden counter, letters
from school in a little pile,
bowl with four ripe tomatoes,
plump William Carlos peaches.
By the sink, colander of rinds
dried out under halogen bulbs,
and a monster tesco pasta bake
thawing softer for our mouths.
The toaster, blender, scales
all in a row, a holy trinity
of domesticity, or three old men
sat out in the sun, before
the Greek fresco of the tiled wall.
Herbs grow in pots by the sill,
the blind is pulled, they sleep.
In a far corner, towels dry.
The cork pinboard with badges
of Gran Canaria and school fetes,
skirt of teatowels, crown made
or paper daffodils and yellow lists.
The old clock, slender numerals
and a wooden frame, high up
on the wall, ticks below hearing,
bringing in the autumn night.