Just lately I've heard you stirring
in an imperfect world.
Heard the clink of silver against china
and early morning cough
as you sit down to contemplate
last year's seed catalogue
and the ones you didn't plant.
Outside the wind has been blowing
leaves against the walls
of this little haven you created.
Autumn is so desperately trying
to creep in through the cracks
but you won't let it
touch a bone of your body.
Heard coals in the stove shifting
with a sigh for me and you.
Had to climb out of bed to know for sure
if that was you in there
or just some misplaced dream.
Crept through this old place
with a tiptoe of bare feet,
funny that I should want to hear you
yet keep my own presence quiet.
Are you there my daddy?
Have you reclaimed that old early morning spot?
Shall I come in and sit opposite?
Watch as you drink and read?
Wait for you to lift your head
to see me as we used to be
two early risers midst the house of sleep?
Just round the corner of the door
I hear the rustle and flick
as you light another cigarette.
Dare I look?
Can I?
© Berenice Dunford 2003
