Sunday Mornings, lazy paper reading, coffee drinking mornings. Next week we shall have no visitors, we shall exploit the time to do all manner of wonderful things to our house, things we want to do. For our own personal pleasure we shall paint and move and re-move, we shall live in every space and look at the kitchen from impossible angles. At the end of all this, probably by Wednesday, we shall have a house worthy of kings. All the while I shall post poetry and writing that will light up the world.
Alternatively, we may just chip away at a corner, smile and drink wine, decide it is all too much, sell up and live in the mountains (or by the sea). For the moment, an oddity, something to ponder, the early hours of the morning produces strange ideas, when the moonlight is bright and the noises are amplified by the night, this is one of those strange ideas.
The fur brushes against the side of the car,
it almost makes a sound in the dark.
It is the light of the moon across the floor
that reminds me I am not dreaming.
Silver eyes, I know are waiting for a lapse
in concentration. It is the house that moves,
maybe that is what disturbs you, makes you
turn over so I feel you against my back.
Misty window, and there is nothing
to be seen except moonlight.