Poetry at Sangam



It Is by Rhian Edwards

the revelation of the runny yolk
after the egg has been scalped;

the hand-written letter on the doormat
like the glimpse of a rare bird;

the sip that attests to the alchemy
of perfectly sweetened tea;

the clemency of dressing yourself
in clothes hung and warmed by the fire;

the fluent descent of the coffee plunger;
the smell of toast, the unrivalled char of it;

the unearthing of a mix tape from your first love;
the relief of a decent barrister against your ex;

the thrill of the toilet effervescing
in a flood of royal blues;

the twelve-week scan that testifies
to proof of life.