A burnt omelette's, old sweet corn and dishes
stacked at random in the grease-rimed sink.
The children shrill about T.V. wishes.
My daughter cannot thread a needle. Each blink
upsets the thread's frayed edge sideways.
I police them to bed; “face, teeth, lights out”,
having first heard my youngest trace the lettered maze.
Patient with her at her stress, I want to shout.
I go downstairs, conscious of a sadness,
Velásquez or El Greece could not catch
in a portrait of the poet with attendant mess,
because the artists had models to match.
Each riddle made of fame spells unique,
a needle for word-threads’ deft hide and seek.
By
( Duncan MCGibbon )
