The Kettle

The kettle started whistling
Blowing puffs of steam
The little lid on the stem
Rattling and dancing
The water struggling inside
To jump out... to be free....

You opened your eyes slightly
And pointed the kettle with your eyes
I did not want to get up
And leave the warmth of the bed

It brings a smile to my lips
To remember
Your playful annoyance
When I said....
'Just like you...
Last night... remember..? '

by Rowving Smith

Comments (4)

A talented poetess for sure. Congratulations HBH.
I've missed reading poems like this. I like the metaphor of the tarantulas, even though I despise the sight of them! Eeek! The final line hit me hard and clear. 'Finally takes her first breath...' Its simplicity and truth is brilliant. Your friend, Seán
Poor tarantulas - nobody likes 'em. Wasps sting them, scoop our their abdomens, devour the protein to feed their egg-sacs. Then they implan the sacs in their hairy carcasses. Talk about insult to injury. To me they look like disembodied monkeys' paws. scuttling acoss the forest floor. My daughter has a couple in a plastic box. They move about once a fortnight.
a powerful, vivid, and healing, piece, Ivy.