for February, a poem of love and longing

Two Cups

Now she’s dead I do it all the time.

I’m always setting out two cups for tea.

I bought her favourite biscuits just last week,

I can’t get used to not having her here.

There’s no one else to tell about the birds

or when The Archers start or to ask

if we should risk the plants out overnight.

The frost might come and then you’ve lost the lot.

I’m always setting out two cups for tea

and shouting her it’s raining, but she’s gone.

A woman comes to clean. She’s very nice.

She doesn’t talk much though and we don’t laugh.

I find I have too much time by myself.

I’d give anything to have her back again.

by Rose Cook