Stone columns lined the nave,
graced by a stained warmth.
Yet, as I stood in the crossing
the silence was coarse.

Basil and thyme speckled rye
dipped in warm tomato soup.
Nestled under a white cotton quilt
clinging to a small blue bowl.

The frosty air tastes like water.
Your hand is warm.
Our cheeks are bright red.
Your laughter's a storm.

Emeralds and white linen
fasten to your stare.
Like rusting leaves to the coastal breath,
like your words to air.

The misty fog outside,
condenses into a speckled bedroom glass.  

Through which,
nestled deep under the blanket,
I hear the orchestra of a rainy 8am life.  

Bothered by the unconducted iso-rhythms
of dripping water droplets,
dropping onto the metal window sill,
I peak my head out from under the duvet
and yawn out the stale air from my lungs.  

I notice the coffee left for me
on the bedside table before she left.  
I grasp the warm little blue cup.  

I hear the birds in the trees somewhere below
warming up their sleepy little lungs.  

I close my eyes and feel the cold air
through the window.  
Hiding under my duvet,
I drift back to sleep.