A Spring morning of holy war.

I scald the teapot, set the table,  

fork on the left, knife on the right,

blue and white willow pattern cup 

resting on the saucer. In my garden, 

butter yellow primroses appear, open

their little faces towards morning sun.

An altar of sand and shell on my dresser, 

ivory candle on the window catching 

the early light. Mother’s Day flowers 

starting to wither, there is still some colour 

in the dusky pink roses. The cat’s delicate 

paw stretched out, her shadow the shape 

of a Trident11D5 missile on the wall.