Sweet steam rises from the roasts to be
as I stand outside with colander
and my own company,
daughter holding kitchen,
awaiting ordinary potatoes to be done.
At least the last of the day is blue.
I listen to horizon: a far jet,
the faintest swish of tyre on wet
road, past the tip and turning,
a train ticking off to Sandbach.
Clear air above,
the steam twirls up towards,
is drained out now and shades
so easily where grey occludes.
As I go in, it’s out she comes
togged up in my hat and shoes.
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
