Visitors

A late August Sunday saw the table laid,

With the hidden cutlery out on parade.

Out came each rural scene and serviette,

And floral patterned Port Meiron set.

Each tedious timbered top was pledged to sheen,

Where the sideboard saw the Harvey's Bristol cream,

Rubbing shoulders with the Johnny Walker gin,

As the port decanter, tried to muscle in.

The brightness of the brassware newly buffed,

Saw the sofa hovered and her cushions fluffed.

Tall and slender standard in her satin shade,

In her tasteful light, some rotting fruit did bathe.

The florentine drapes were demurely tied back,

To stop her flirting billow up the armchair's back,

Yet in the paper's stuffed and cluttered home,

Was a blushing Times up a Woman's Own,

And when the rack was raided, the Guardian was seen,

Intimately creased with She Magazine.

The barley-legged table, plantly over-staffed,

Heard the pansy giggle - the cactus barely laughed.

The moral movement of the carriage clock,

Belied her titillating tick and tock.

Then as the heaving Hoover in the cupboard cooled,

Into the driveway the visitor's Citroen pulled.

With a "Nice to see you" came "Sorry about the mess",

Then the roars of laughter beyond the quietness.