The last few mornings, tired,
I have crawled across the bed into the space you left,
To wallow in your warmth, in your scent,
For just a few moments
Until I hear you downstairs,
Rattling, humming, moving,
Baking bread for the children,
Your eyes out into the burgeoning morning,
Still cocooned in the heat you left,
Still wrapped in the perfume you left,
Light now knocking on the curtains,
To the sound of other voices and echoing stairs
Rolling in through the half-closed door, and
Forcing me into consciousness and action,
Feet out into the cold, onto the floor,
Sit up and feel the cool air on my chest,
My breathing shallow from being deprived of you.
But they fill me with a new content,
Make me understand what it is to grow older
Organically, some goals still not reached,
And others there already, from the beginning
I know not to speak into your mornings now.
Steve Gregory30th November 2013 at 14:20
My wife always gets up first and I always roll onto her side – a beautiful description Richard.