February flickers

last trace of winter fingers

a half moon flies from

pink ringed sky.

 

Snowdrops push through

water laden meadow

& the mud goes on & on

thick, sticky, like blood.

 

I wake to grey mornings

where sleep lingers

& the duvet thickens

drawing me back into the dark

 

unconscious warmth of sleep:

where we walk the sun baked sand

to the rocky fort & stand staring

at the thin rimmed lip of sea

 

just the way we used to be.