Sun & Soup Poem by Terry Collett

You hold the spoon
over the tureen

watching the soup
drip back with a plop.

You know Francis
will enter soon,

and stand watching
over you, him being

master of the kitchen,
wondering if you had

dipped your finger
and tasted the soup

with your tongue
and say, I hope you

haven’t dipped your finger
in and tasted, it isn’t

the done thing;
and he’d give you

such a look, as if you would,
as if Mother had not

taught you kitchen manners
with its dos and don’ts;

and as you look up
at the high windows,

sunlight leaks through
the coloured glass pane

throwing its golden finger
across the tureen’s hold.