Grimbeau

There are yellowfish

crying out

for a poach.

We approach seven.

It is evening:

drinks on the patio,

freewheeling banter, laughs , and snacks.

Tapas lovingly prepared.

The lugubrious air

memories of summers past.

Dreamtime in a word.

The smoked haddock will stop yelling soon.

Green or black olives, Daphne?

Are they pitted?

By my fair hand.

You are the one, aren’t you…What’s that sound?

Fish snoring.

Tee-hee-hee…