Evening slants
against the kitchen;
out there is storming
until nine.
 
Darkness and tidings
whirl at the window.
In here we follow
each year's advice.
 
A pendant of oil
to fry the mince.
Cut the green pipes
of spring onion
over soft white curd.
 
Pan-roll the egg beat,
lift the edges briefly.
We sit for dinner
at the chime of the rice.
 
Now brightness and vapour;
they connect the earth simply.
In here these turnings
construct him and I.
 
The candle between us
tonight is December.
Restful how the smoke plays
on such worth.