after Kevin Brophy
A good cup of tea is poised so

everyone becomes your aunty.

Below the base of the nose time is infused.

The afternoon sighs.
A butterfly may dance through your field

of vision. You needn’t look around.

The room and the chair are recognised

as long-lost friends. A teddy bear

is raised from an old box somewhere.
The conversations are wallpaper.

Light filters into the old house,

and beams upon the still living carpet.

The air swirls, dizzy with dust.