
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’