The way the camera’s angled, is the gin half empty?
The tonic’s gone beside the gnocchi, left-over sausages.
It’s hard to see whether there are cherries left on the trees,
Perhaps we’ve eaten them as they dropped, dark, almost black,
into our hands – you’re never in the photographs,
the only one who can hold the camera steady.
Someone’s talking but there’s laughter as we remembered
the slowworm that slithered through the stillness when we arrived
and you threw the blue cloth over the table to make life respectable
before adding forks and neatly polished glasses.
We’re posed like a summer sketch found in an old crimson notebook
and I think blue cloth, cherries, against a back-drop of horses
who canter to the fence in the hope of apples or recognition.
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