He gets up when she does,
watching her change,
following her shape around the room
with his eyes, that aim her kisses.
Hair brushed in mirrors,
re-tying and tidying in a hurry,
she storms past his outstretched hand
as she hears the kettle click.
He rubs his eyes to see
cold fields, yellowish,
swaying sides into the sun:
her shoed footsteps echo in the hallway.
She reaches the door before he does,
rushing a kiss in sunlight
before stepping out with her keys,
like a warden, head bowed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this little insight into a morning ritual, I can see a woman now 'multi-tasking', possibly rushing about with hair tied back says it all, you all the while waking up gently and into your chores for the day, pen in hand relaxed. It's an interesting portal into the world of Stug Jordan. HG: -) xx