In the grey square of skylight
your sat profile is framed,
whether by falling moon
or motorway’s light pollution
I cannot say.
We are awake,
though between us silence
lies in that pause before
switching on the bedside lamp.
Yet not wholly quiet:
already whiny traffic growls,
elbows its way to work.
A cistern drips intermittent
after emptied bladders.
Later, broad day peers in
at my oversleeping.
Weighing its prospects
I roll into your warm mould,
a baking tray left cooling
when covers are thrown off.
Make-believe melts away,
there’s clatter down below:
the putting back of pans
as mordant breath of bacon rises,
steals upstairs.
My woken mind
is tip of an iceberg,
seven-eighths beneath the surface.
iii.2013
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