at the end of the day there is no one other than you
i would come home to. the mirrors of the shop windows
bend to break the shattered illusions and rejoice
in the simple art of breathing. the witche’s cauldron
of gentle fire rushes and brushes past the crowds moving
on and off the platforms,
as we shed our skin to the grey slanting rain
your fingers slide into my fingers
as the glove of heart’s contentment.
tomorrow is passion, where hot bread with a soft centre
and crunchy on the crust, is cut up into squares to drop into
vegetable soup. a cat will purr in delight at the fresh kill
of a wood spider
and when the rain stops, change will dry up the muddy puddles that only the day before
soaked our socks right down to the heel.
with whiskey dry hands we retire to our thirsty
exchanging of keys in the lock
before switching off front- porch lights. at the end of the day
I only want to be awoken at night to your sharp coughing
and the sound of embers emitting joy, as it is here
in all that you are.