Eight Suffolk Place

8 Suffolk Place

On your way out you spot the sheep's head,
peer through the glass door. You find
yourself on the other side, the rest of the flock
surround you. Two on the fridge door,
dozens on the tea towel, another
leaping over a china gate. A lamb hangs
beside the window, its face scarred and stained;that one good eye is
watching.

In the cupboard are stock cubes, a stylised
woolly face on each side of the box,
mint sauce, the glass jar still sealed.
On the worktop past dinners stain
the method and ingredients
Lamb Shank with Rosemary.
Beside the curling pages oven gloves
lie waiting. As if on cue, the cooker light
goes on. There's ticking as the temperature
rises, begins to cook the foil-wrapped
parcel inside.

You long to set another place, pull
up a chair, talk about the day. Offer
to do the dishes. A horned ram
chases a butterfly marking seconds
in a circle. Almost four. Forget
the fragrant smells seeping from
the oven door, resist the warmth,
don't switch the kettle on. Leave
before dusk fulls the window
and the family returns. Take
the bag. Move on.