Across my lap this broken paperback
Waits for the moon’s half-truth
To cast its story in a different light.
A hill breeze we can’t hear
Teases a mime routine from the firs:
Such eloquence in the silence of trees.
Wind chimes percolate
Their rumour through the garden,
Each ring the trill of coming rain.
Unlike you, I lack control
Of that instinct that tells you when
To sleep, to breathe, to turn for home;
The one that sees you so exact
As to arrive at our front door
At the first touch of drizzle,
That has you now casting your eyes
Upwards at the gathering cloud
Filling these hollowed skies,
And clutching the shawl closer to
Your throat, your breast,
As though gathering windfalls.
By Simon Smith