May 2

A mottled sky; the sun, not yet awake,

Lies tucked behind the houses on the ridge

While mist hangs like a smoker's guilt, to bridge

The silent moments left until daybreak.

Dulled in the shaddow, we stand mute and alone,

Sliding from the bedroom to the desk

By way of instant coffee, and a mess

Of papers, laptops and a mobile phone.

Outside the carriage window, nothing's clear,

The occasional sun, a greying distant disc,

Vanishes for shame into the mist

Pleading to be anywhere but here.

          Far off, beyond the sleepers and the sea

          I hear Herne's call, and yearn to be set free. 

Brian Hick May 2008

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022