Monday, November 10, 2014

Wolves Going to Picnic

I woke, and resisted the urge 
to really turn over to face the empty plains of our bed. 
Instead I imagined turning over. . 

to see the edges of your lashes, 
sweeping down towards your cheek, 
like foothills to a snowy plain.

A pack of silver wolves racing by,
padding softly through the snow.
They are wearing pointed hats,
and silk grey jackets:
they are going to picnic,
they are going to tea.

It is then, that my fingers brush your cheek,
sending the little wolves tumbling
with the soft clatter of tea cups
little white saucers, spinning.
A bit of spilt oolong 
(for that is what wolves drink)
soft and warm as my whispered
"good morning my love"

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