Sunday, 17 December
The draft from the barely
open window cools my back.
I listen to the the barn owl
call his mate back
from her dawn hunting.
The back door
closes lightly and I hear
this morning’s fire wood
tumble into the box.
There is just a tinge of pink light
on the tops of the trees.
Enough to see the across
the clearing but not into the woods.
Your right slipper squeaks
as you climb the stairs.
The shower starts and
I hear water splash against
the tiles. I turn the pillow
and rest my cheek on the
cool percale of the other side.
Downstairs the dog
clatters her dish across the kitchen
calling for her breakfast.
I roll over and listen
for the soft cooing of the owls
as they settle for the day.
The mice are waiting
for them to fall asleep.
I drowse too.
Then, I hear your bare feet cross
the creaking floor. You are bringing me
hot, black tea and oranges.
You climb back into bed beside me,
peel the fruit and
hand me sections. I bite them and
spill their juice down my chin.
You laugh and rub your bristly cheek
against the back of my neck.
And I marvel
at how much I can love you
lying here in the scent
of our unmade bed
with the sweetness of December
clementines on my tongue.
Published on The Laundry Line, 16 December, 2025.
