Wednesday, 15 February 2012

A Morning Infusion

Head in the warm valley of my pillow
I create a vision then draw her near
To exchange injunctions in tones too low
For attendant ghosts of my past to hear.

I wake, breathless, and discover my hand
Redundantly clutching my drawn-up knee,
The wanton grasp, denied all that was planned,
Transfers to a tool for stirring my tea.