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The tearoom at Horning
The window looks over a rain-dripped
garden. Each pane has its share
of the close-encountered British fug
that builds indoors now summer's gone.
Toasted cheese displaces trans-national quiche.
Under the plastic dome a huddle of
unwanted, ritual scones, slightly hard,
occupy an eternal catering yesterday.
The doilies are washed and put aside.
Formica, swiftly wiped, sweeps free
and fearless from wall to wall,
serving a plainer purpose.
Somerset 1998
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