She?

She will slip silk over her scanty nightgown,
And start her woman’s day.

He will come into the kitchen and drink her coffee and eat her toast.
She will look at him across the table...
And will not see the fresh, tell-tale, facial lines...
Nor see, nor touch, the small patch of unshaved stubble...
Just to the side of his neck, beneath his chin,
where his life pulse pips...

Up and down... up and down
Like the ticking of a clock.

She will watch him read his notes and plan his route,
And the kids will shout, and the kids will hoot…

Around him, as they do.

But amid the usual cacophony that is this day’s overture...
She will smile at him.

He will not see the smile...
She will know that,

Even before the creases ripple upwards
From the edge of her lips, and her eyes sparkle with the memory
Of what was passed between them in the night...

Now, it is the time that's passing.

He will kiss the kids, one by one.

Small pecks upon pink cheeks
As in ancient order they file past...
Leaving to catch their morning bus to school...
Then he will turn to her and say goodbye.

On this day…
Fortuitously…
Innocently…
His kiss for her will be more ardent;
Will be more longer lasting.
She will think she knows the reason why…
but she will not…

A woman’s work is never done.

He will climb into his white company car...
With the red company logo on the door…
She will call for him to remember,

When in Cahors…
Her small pink list.

Written neatly it will implore…
That he bring home the bread…
The cheese, the wine…
His laughter, and his love!
He will tuck the note that ended “Je t’adore”
Into his open jacket pocket.

She will stand looking after him until his car blends with the
lightening mist, and becomes totally indistinguishable.

A divine portent?

Her thoughts will pass from stitch to stitch, tucking in, straightening...
White sheets on the marital bed…
Where sweet things were said…
Where passionate moments sped…
Where white seeds bled…

© Griffonner 2024