September 29, 2011

It was after the Tottenham Riots

and after the trouble at work,

after the death of the singer

and the dancing, at the carnival.

The day after she came back home

we drank tea in her kitchen

poured from a saucepan.

We walked down her quiet street,

leaves heaped

against the paving stones.

We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.

We talked about the weather in the Midlands,

light collected round our feet.

It was the day after they discovered

that time travel might be possible;
the day after the man
had said so on the news.

We were sat there in her kitchen,

after the gown and the corridors,

after the waiting and the phonecalls.

The sun shone on the curtains.

We stirred tea.
Time, moved.