Carrying the grocery across the street
she dodges cars standing nose to back neat,
the spray of rain water on the skirt
at the kitchen sink she scrubs holding the pleat.
The thick corn soup simmers over the stove,
aubergine purple like the fine down of a dove,
smoked with pounded ginger and cinnamon,
laid in a greased bowl with a dash of lemon.
She opens the blinds to the stars in the sky,
over the beeswax candle splutters the singed fly,
she sips gulab sherbet the hue of early sunset,
the chimes in the breeze a gentle dulcet.