in the wind
the blood bright red
poppies dance and bow
the bee's bustle and hustle,
from one black hearted flower
to another, little engines
revving away, as they gather
the pollen count for the day's quota
the sound is like a conversation
you can't quite hear, as you
struggle to remain asleep
on a drowsy summer sunday morning

a comforting whisper with some
notes of anxiety, the sort of conversation
that precedes  a breakfast in bed made
by child and husband, one that comes
with best intentions, tepid tea, cold eggs
and slightly singed toast, sans jam
a breakfast that you eat smilingly,
knowing, the love that flavours it
a breakfast you eat whilst watching
poppies dance and bumblebee's bustle