Mick Escott

THAT TABLE                                                                                            

That table stands in stern rebuke,

one gateleg crippled, others bearing

bulk and weight built up, dust deep,

a sea of disorder – a mass of flaking

files, congealing thick in piles

of frayed papers, pamphlets, cards,

occasional insects, pencils blunt,

dappling in the windowed sun,

relief a glimpse of striking drape

from a faded table cloth, obscured,

all pressure on fine clasped feet,

carved as ancient ball and claw.

But cease censure, suspend

reproof – consider the chance

to prosper – there might dwell

potent scribblings or printouts –

rhymes to refine, metaphors

in bud, stanzas to grow,

to develop and satisfy,

lewd limericks prone,

or supine, deep down,

phrases to thrive. My heart

lifts to start to raise

hope aloft, a little.

ball and claw’