Twenty-five years

For Tebo

I waken too early, on woodsman’s toes explore

a home that’s still, until our neighbour turns

the news up loud, and you begin to snore

to match the rhythm of the morning trains.

Again I discover as though surprised, the sounds

of dawn are sung by modern life not birds,

that we inhabit cul de sacs, not glades,

wear dressing gowns, not bark cloth capes or furs.

So coffee and toast, and a view of the low winter sky,

an hour or two at tasks brought home from work:

I read, respond, review, redraft, delay,

and listen out for when I hear you stir.

We make pastel love, and when we look outside

a quiet snow has fallen across the town.

The sun shines on the whitened roofs and road.

We smile and put the central heating on.

(Published on Ink Sweat & Tears )