Pausing beside the open kitchen-door,
I watched her, as so many times before,
Setting the kettle on, and laying the tea —
The white cloth and the blue-striped crockery,
The creamy butter, floating in a pool
Of freshly-gathered cresses, green and cool:
And, as she took the loaf to cut the bread,
I wondered that she never turned her head ...
And, only then, remembered she was dead.