Not Quite Matching
The dishes are china, a bit old fashioned, not unlike you,
not quite matching, somehow working together.
There is a sense of belonging on the table,
each dish friendly, complementary to the other,
quiet in the morning. A time before the world
comes into existence. A place away/ From it all.
From the interruptions. A place where conversation
and companionable silence reigns.
This is why you travel. For moments like this
that extend into hours.
Time that belongs to you,
wholly to you.
Toast with Marmalade. A pair of eggs.
A window seat and sunshine.
This morning, far from life, you have no need
to battle your demons. They simply slink away
of their own accord, knowing they have lost
before they even begin as the two of you
sip your tea and coffee, not matching,
always belonging. Together.
About this poem.
A poem about travel. About depression. About relationships which are rarely perfect but have the potential for wonder and joy. Poetry is rarely about one thing.
I have no idea where I took the picture. I think it was in England in a Bed and Breakfast, but I am not sure.