Wednesday 23 August 2017


Noel King

My uncle took his bride

from the portals of an Indian summer

of print dresses and cream ice cream.

Her aunts worked together a patchwork quilt;

her mother's delft -- unbroken for two generations --

went on a clevvy her handyman father made.

My uncle made handiwork of her

home-making, drank to a busy grave.

Now in this Indian summer

she trusts the weather,

washes the quilt,

sits on the terrace, a newspaper,

glasses unsteady on her apron-lap,

watching it dry.

Sunday Independent

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