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standing at the kitchen bench
standing at the kitchen bench
the evening light
simmers
a gentle lowering
into night
at the bench I peel potatoes
with a knife
sharpened myself
these many years
as my father did
all those years ago
the pumpkin, smiling
its ardent orange smile
is next and then an onion
side dishes to
the pie I’ve prepared
for our evening meal
but the footsteps of my son
do not clatter beneath my feet
and his voice no longer questions
with the same four year old intent
my daughter reads quietly
biting her bottom lip
just like her aunt my sister
once upon a time did
how quickly the years have fled
the babe’s once cradled in my arms
now run their own races
and evening meals
seem far more sedate
and at times like these
when the mind ponders
as the peas are pod and carrots washed
everything somehow sadder
without the shouting
of their little voices
that at the time
might almost have driven me to distraction
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