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.