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.
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Comments about this poem (Mornun’ Mawther by Stug Jordan )
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