Saint with Accoutrements
after ‘Mrs Mounter at the Breakfast Table’ by Harold Gilman
All spotless. Some objects we might deem
especially significant:
the glistening tea pot, pristine cups
lustrous milk bowl, the best surely.
We inhale diverse aromas:
odour of home-made polish, Jeyes Fluid, Vim.
Mrs Mounter, tell us why?
Perhaps she’s a saint, a kitchen anchorite
sealed into contemplation of a state of grace
so very nearly reached.
A martyr to the Sunlight Soap,
the damask drape, her table is in order;
observe her coronet of curious light,
that hint of halo.
At three o clock she sits and waits.
Behind the periwinkle eyes,
a mind is ranging wide through space;
her best is not enough.
Each day she relocates the empty cup
a fraction to the left and trusts
the virtuous will one day be rewarded.