Sunlight burnishes the wooden floor

where each chair has been placed

in precise relation to the long table.

Cutlery and glassware stretch their parade-ground

gleam the whole length and in regular bursts,

lavender and small yellow roses lean awry

in vases, as if there is such a thing

as good intent.
The timbers of the old jetty grow soft with salt.

Water seeps.

Beneath, the piles are emaciated, but just for now

they resist the slurp, suck of the tide, the undermining.

Marine larvae have scored the wood surfaces

with sleepwalking meanders. 
In the window there are two candles, unlit.

They’re visible from the street.

A match-box with its sides unmarked so far

rests on the sill, by the latch, as if there is still time

for patience.