Three Puddles Late
a fairytale loosely inspired by this picture i found on old world illustrations
A cricket in a suit jacket —
herringbone, slightly too long in the sleeve —
was three puddles late for tea
when the procession turned onto Bellworth Lane.
Six pallbearers, all moths,
carrying a matchbox lined with clover.
He removed his top hat.
He did not know the deceased
but it felt wrong to pass.
The kettle would be cold by now.
The scones, already halved and waiting.
Mrs. Wren had set the saucers out at two
and it was very nearly three
and the daffodils along the fence
were almost rude in how alive they looked.
He stood there on the cobblestone,
antennae low,
watching the procession hum a hymn
he half-remembered from a smaller April —
back when he still fit his other jacket
and tea was never something you were late for,
just something that was always there.
The last moth passed.
He straightened his lapel.
He walked a little faster but not too fast —
it was, after all,
still a funeral kind of afternoon.
Comments (2)

“ He did not know the deceased/but it felt wrong to pass.” Your poem is so touching