a re-post
his bed, pull a t-shirt on to cover
and walk with silent feet across
the hard wooden floors while he,
adjusted to sudden space will move
and fling an arm across the now
vacant warmth of their bed.
She likes that time to herself
to watch the water from the
balcony, as spring ducks dive
hopeful ever for that last crumb
and numb feet now impervious
to the cold, dew wet concrete.
She likes to watch the early risers
pedalling along the paths, expending
energy, blowing stress in vapour breaths
as forbidden smokers huddle, casting
furtive looks and belching out their
fumes like old factory chimneys to weld
in amongst the grey skies of solitary morn.
Sounds fill her as the air chills
her narrowed gaze deep upon
dark opaque waters that relentlessly
carve a path to their distant dreams
singing songs of long wayward journeys.
She won't move now until she feels
a warm hand touch her nape
and sleepy eyes beckon her from
this cold and lonely stance and such
a glance is as warming to her
as the bed she left a while ago.
They will sit with doors open
gently communicating through
the lapping water, until its sated
rhythm calls. Then unspoken
they'll take Sunday back to bed
and let the river run its course.
Poetry by Elle
Read 616 times
Written on 2009-04-02 at 13:18
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Early Morning Reverie
She will leave the warm embrace ofhis bed, pull a t-shirt on to cover
and walk with silent feet across
the hard wooden floors while he,
adjusted to sudden space will move
and fling an arm across the now
vacant warmth of their bed.
She likes that time to herself
to watch the water from the
balcony, as spring ducks dive
hopeful ever for that last crumb
and numb feet now impervious
to the cold, dew wet concrete.
She likes to watch the early risers
pedalling along the paths, expending
energy, blowing stress in vapour breaths
as forbidden smokers huddle, casting
furtive looks and belching out their
fumes like old factory chimneys to weld
in amongst the grey skies of solitary morn.
Sounds fill her as the air chills
her narrowed gaze deep upon
dark opaque waters that relentlessly
carve a path to their distant dreams
singing songs of long wayward journeys.
She won't move now until she feels
a warm hand touch her nape
and sleepy eyes beckon her from
this cold and lonely stance and such
a glance is as warming to her
as the bed she left a while ago.
They will sit with doors open
gently communicating through
the lapping water, until its sated
rhythm calls. Then unspoken
they'll take Sunday back to bed
and let the river run its course.
Poetry by Elle
Read 616 times
Written on 2009-04-02 at 13:18
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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 by Elle Latest textsTwo Little CatsHills Not the End Cinders Oh perfect Day |
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