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Simon Kew

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When Our Origami Teacher Came To Stay

During the season of thunderstorms
when rain-clouds unfurl in purple veils,

a teacher appeared at our door as if by magic,
her blossoming smile, the truth of silver linings.

And so it proved. We children lay on the floor mats
gazing through her nimble fingers‘ lattice-work;

she folded, pressed and threaded puffed-up pillows,
antique beds, intricate boats with sails,

and pursed clouds of butterflies which our father
scattered as showers of snow. We ran a-mock

filling the house with our drumming feet
those cloud-filled days. Our lessons over

lapped all limpid afternoon as she plied
our burgeoning table with a geisha’s hands

delicate as brush-strokes: apple blossom,
tea-sets and white tigers.

I remember a kettle singing in the night,
it kissed her bedroom wall with tremulous rain.

 

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