You had an eye for cutlery.
All week the good set lay
on its side in the well of the table.
We made do with oddments,
one offs, whatever came to hand.
Forks like father and son,
silver cheek by jowl with bone
and, unheralded mornings,
coming down to grapefruit,
the palest of yellow moons,
the tapering curve of the knife
the furrowed bowl of the spoon.