Like an old cliché that defied their years
He watched her washing up.
He watched her dress the filthy pots in bubbles
Like her chitchat cheering low moods.
He watched her caress the carving knives
Like her whispers soothing rage.
He watched her chip away the baking tray stains
Like her patience clearing darkness.
As he silently squeezed her shoulder
Then backed towards the door.
‘What was that for?’ she said,
Continuing her deep cleanse.
‘Nothing,’ he said,
Unaware he’d made her day.
© Carl Burkitt 2014