Wrinkles in my Sheets

There are wrinkles in my sheets
I did not see before,
And already there is knocking at my door,
But I am not prepared to let him meet
My crumpled bed until I've made it neat.
The iron grows heavy in my dimpled hand
And steadily I lean the creases out,
'Till ruck becomes a plane I understand
And rumpled nap compressed and innocent.
It would not surprise me
If I heard it said,
"The Japanese have ceremony of making-bed",
Performed with perfect symmetry
Billowing sheets unfurled
Would be re-formed,
Smoothly laid out with a sweep of the arm,
Corners tucked flat in origami fold,
No less an expression of the love held
By the tea-makers.
Making beds should not be done in a hurry,
Rather lined like a Faberge egg
Ready to cradle some chamferless jewel.
When my bed is made, furrows ironed out
And the turn-down taut,
Waiting unrumpled for its precious let,
Then, when there are no wrinkles in my sheets,
I will be ready to open the door.

(this poem won fourth prize in the Ouse Valley Poetry Competition 1992/93)