Writing on the Wall

In sun a clear red sings.

The continental breakfast on white linen
shines with fine china, strawberries,
savoury dishes, bread in baskets,
butter shell indented and beautifully presented.

Today, back home, the table bare
with letters quietly stacked,
Italian coffee scents the air, draws memories
as cloud dulls distance.

Damp English June;
shorn sheep, weeds grown longer, wetter.
Hard green apples swell, burst poppies wound,

their cadmium splashed here and everywhere,
only red, in sun, sings clearer there.