contentment

The world as womb

It is the feeling of being
Cradled,
No matter what you’ve left
Unconfessed.  

It is the feeling of being
Warmed,
No matter how many scars
Deface you.

A Morning, Late November

 

 Rod of silver

Wand struck

Soft on my head

Of thoughts laced

With sweet, dripping

Nectar beads

Sweet, dripping

Nectar drop.

The Sun shines

Nourishment on

Me on the bedclothes

And my day dawns

Thick, cool, clear

And tinged with

Autumn, crusts

Of the year, left to crumble, crunch

And pile their juices into compost

Fodder for the Spring.

I rise to meet

These orange-browns,

Lights dangling,

Lights drifting, drunken

Twirling through

The gusts,

Traffic wardens flick them off.

(26th November 2009)