He saw the queen,
in sunlit beams and shafts,
from behind the pump in the yard,
water softened,
honey polished,
from many laboured hands.

The slung bucket,
and the wafting cobweb stood,
as the griddle cooled,
propped against the kitchen wall

of the long clandestine afternoon.
So, her jewelled hands scuffled
and fussed,
smoothing over stone scoured boards.
The shimmering stove

sent its wall of heat
out to her where she stood,
in a flour dusted apron,
by the welcome draught
next to the window.

Sun glinted on her crown,
as she wiped her brow,
dusted the boards
with a goosanders wing.
There she sat, open-lapped,
white hair,
whitened nails,
slim shinned.

No truffle here, just the simple joys
of queens and tarts.
Here was her space, found again,
as the cakes rising
marked the tick of the timeless clock

as here too was unrequited love,
lost like the silvered scoop,
sunk past its shine
deep in the flour bin.