I find, always, when looking out

of your window, I can see

what has come, has gone and what

is yet to be.

Rain, sun, and rain, perhaps merely

a seasonal thing;

a tempest of sorts before the tide

unclasps its cling

on a battered shoreline.

 

Beyond the sea,

behind the smeared glass

a new dawn tempts me

to rouse you from your sleep;

whispering sounds like fragrances

soft, gentle, delicate to touch;

to smooth over

crumpled bedsheets.  And such

a day we’d make.

 

The storms of yesterday

had not long cleared;

time had passed and

our weary souls had only

affectionate rays, new to show.

Now you shift, beneath my song,

stir sideways, but

the clatter returns, soft now strong;

as you slowly wake.