This world is hardshelled:

clay sintered and glazed

as meticulous tile and cup

the colours of earth,

each egg’s boundary

neat as a statue’s eyeliner

and the morning light walled

outside by glass

there’s no seeing through.

The wisp of drape is cornered,

the cactus huddles in spines

as it dreams against the window.
Into this strait of ochres

will come, stretching from sleep,

the One for breakfast;

her chosen egg be juggled from its steam,

the waiting cup receive, the spoon connect

and shattering white and sun’s yellow

insist

on quite a different picture.


Notes:

Based upon Eggs> by Sybil Craig, National Gallery of Victoria