Slumber-dark, the room inhales, exhales,
with the shifting focus of my myopia,
to the breathing rhythm of your body-heap.
I scan the watching shadows that see bland day-lit domestic detritus
turned to hood-cloaked guardians
of midnight’s unfamiliar realm.
I also watch.
The unblinking snake would envy
the piercing intent of my study
of your head’s side. Skin-lids shudder
as your eyes twitch and roll in pursuit
or retreat in the dreams racing
through your Tardis mind; that universe
of memories, lusts, imaginings, clustered
compactly inside that adored box of bone.
Peering at your ear,
I will myself tiny as the flea,
so to boldly journey
past embryo-curled exterior structure,
through the winding, narrowing dark
that leads perhaps,
towards the flickering kingdom
I could never dream to map.
JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.