In the Night Kitchen (a poem)

A bit of a departure for this website, in that this poem is a) serious, b) for grown-ups and c) not in rhyme. But it seemed an appropriate one for Mother’s Day (here in the UK).

 

Sometimes, at night, I dance.

Dishcloth in hand, I glide across the kitchen floor,

One-two, one-two,

Serenading a saucepan

Flirting with a frying pan

Waltzing with a whisk.

In the bubbled air I twirl and prance.

And then I stop.

Outside the window it is dark, the only audience my reflection.

I return to the sink, and watch

As the music drains away.