You could almost imagine your grandmother,
perching on the dirt bank shroud,
knitting her way through the common afternoon,
shooing away the petty ballistics of gossip.
And in a brief twilight of shut-eyed silence,
this stale foreign breeze is all windows akimbo,
your house sighing into its London summer slumber,
licking out curtains into the syrupy air.
Would you even be shocked if your mother,
apron-armoured and muffin-wielding,
turned the corner to sacrifice her time as hostess,
greeting your half-corpse friends in unpained smiles?
Even now at the dregs of the brew,
head tilted back with eyes glazing at a French sun,
the blue could be a sky returned home,
outlined as it is by the halo of the mug’s rim.