Albion
I spilled some washing-up liquid
On the worktop. Its alkalis
And plastic oranges made an
Odd scent, drew a faint grimace from
Too much of a good thing.
All inThe blindside beneath the bottle’s
Carapace, before we first saw
The aurora borealis
In the downlights. The soiled dishes
Still nag for a scouring pad.
A fork stuck up in the plughole,
But we didn’t yet know the lady
Of the lake, or fair Albion.
The plates, the hands are washed. All washed.
