Spoons.

Palpable heat,
unaccountably cold feet
notwithstanding.
(Not with standing!)

In a bean-rich fug,
secure and snug,
we nestle overnight:
a conjugal rite,
communion of the flesh -

two lightly bruised apples
in a slightly battered dish.
Ripish.

We've seen Naples,
we've seen Paris;
we have heard the chimes
at midnight sundry times,
though mostly, lately,
from indoors,
as superannuated
revellers.

We shall embarrass
the children for a little
longer yet.

There are still a few good tunes.

Let there be Junes,
bring on the moons,
let sound the trombones
and bassoons,
prescribe us prunes,
we'll still be boon
companions,

spoons.

David Callin

If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin would be pleased to hear them.