The hills in August fall behind the stars
And late light lightens nothing in the north coast village.
Morning comes at last with fresh oranges
And an agile clarinet K.581
The breakfast garden prepared but the clients delay;
Starched white napkins folded ziggurats
And climbing plants all lumbering chlorophyll;
One tall candlestick remains from last night’s supper.
Our chef on a three-legged stool and smoking a small cigar
As a blackbird joins the quintet which then falls silent.
All the nimbus day the natural light unnatural.
Our host dismisses the chef,
Draws the iron bolt across the gate
And writes a cheque to pay the caterers’ bill.
He lights the brazier now as
A cloud crawls over the moon;
The empty lights again:
There will be rain.

Peter Mullen