Opening hour is for strawberry jam and sticky fingers.

I watch you unscrew the jar and release June into January.

Soft fruit freckles and blushes in the non-rain.


Here is a sweet, stewing pectin,

Borrowed from summer and ripening for now.


Now with flaking, buttery crumbs

That gild my lap like gold-leaf.


Now with ankles wrapped around bar stools

Where just before, nighthawks perched and slunk into the blue.


Here is a private opening,

With steamed milk and steamed windows

And the cobbles cloaked in a sumptuous kind of grey.


Two knives criss-cross the plate and I lick one when your back is turned.

It is winter still. The year is young and growing.


Customers arrive, buses hiss, coffee froths. And so, on.

I slip into the day and back onto the street,

Knowing the taste of strawberry jam will linger long

For opening up with you.