A Poem for National Poetry Day


Under the Table


Under the table,

dust sits with green Lego brick.

A needle lies flat next to

a tack, point up waiting for

an unsuspecting soft soled foot.


Under the table,

where the edge of the rug

meets stone slabs

crumbs become sharp and hard

unrecognisable remains of cheese on toast.


Under the table,

a single jigsaw piece,

depicting a solitary eye, is half hidden in shadowed shade.  

A long white strand of hair across it,

lies bright in a sliver of window light, like silver thread.


Under the table,

a single unlit match, alone

except for a marble for company.

The rotund glass, orange-sliced, once

champion is nothing except stuck in a rug.


Under the table,

feet no longer meet and tentatively touch.

Children’s kicks long gone.

A silent space filled with nothing but



©Jane Langan


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