Sunrise like fire,
bleeding pink, orange, yellow
into the sky and
onto the buildings below.
Rapids of cloud run with colour,
chasing the anonymous dark emptiness of night,
engulfing it almost imperceptibly.
Trees become silhouettes against the light.
Soon the beauty will fade to ordinary,
dispersed across the vast expanse above. Yet
it will gather again on the other side,
collecting yellow, orange, pink as the sun sets.
Does anyone still make use of the linen handkerchief?
Does anyone still take the time to starch and iron,
Fold and press into triangle or square?
Many and varied the role of this flimsy accessory!
To dab one’s eyes, or nose; or after rain, I suppose –
To dab discreetly at one’s hair.
Then there’s the dapper suit with its lively pocket adornment;
A love token waved, or given away –
A Cinderella’s slipper found by a favoured gent.
Man and woman and child alike for reasons unbeknownst
May stash one on their person quite unbidden.
A lot of fuss over nothing much: this strangest piece of linen.
A Love So Ordinary
When all is still
and there is just you and me,
I can feel the silence
stirred only by our breathing
not yet synchronised.
Fire crackling in the grate,
muffled movement from outdoors
are not part of this silence here with us.
Knees touch, hands reach,
our eyes complete the connection.
Warm touch, getting stronger
as we stand, move together
in this dance of love and understanding.
Nothing exists but the wonder of each other
holding gently to this delicate thread.
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