Friday, 21 December 2007



All day they stand by –
the salt, the pepper –
to dispense their seasoning
on egg or broth or pasta:

passed from hand to hand,
pushed over, stood up;
and for tardiness
tapped smartly on the table.

Now it is night in the kitchen.
A faint gleam
from a street lamp
illuminates their glaze:

once more they are objects,
whose reticence breaks down.
In silence that clicks like ice
once more they are china.


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