Print This Page

August mackerel sky.

my little friend and I

savour the silence of the creeping dawn

red and gold and blue

when even the birds are not yet rested

enough

   it's a lovely morning

so still and soft

so gentle on the eye out here

not a breath

still warm from yesterday's sun

that left the roses, the grass

content;

  the sweet hot tea

my little friend's embrace

floats away

and I light another

and wait for the drugs to kick in: no rush

– our moment drifts

I bask in every sip

knowing my bed waits

as she breathes softly there,

& the knitting needle

finds it’s mark

beneath the cast.