Winter leaves a land
of still anticipation,
bathed in orange light.
Biscuits, coffee, nestled in
his ship – a cutter perched on rusty
barrels, small before the sun.
A nearby nest of lanes – the garden
done, she heads to yellow flames, as coldness comes,
and cuts, and the colours merge to grey.
And as they sink within the
night, I think of them, the single house,
the trees and whispering sea.
When I return, the
smiles will be warm, and I will
find a part of me.