B and B St. Austell’s
A shower of broken- petalled suns,
swirls of oranges, gold,
and flocks of birds,
black eyed, and azure- tailed,
fanning into curls of foliage.
Sheathed like arrows, they stand
furled and waiting in a stone pickle pot,
in the corner of the room.
Lacquer handles, faded red and blue,
four parasols, unopened to display
cane spokes, bursts of chrysanthemum,
fern sprays on paper thin as tissue,
longing to open into light,
to shade the girls whose dreamy pallor
speaks of tea on summer lawns
beside the high cedar,
where they laugh, and lift their faces,
to open and embrace the world.