Down Time

There are no clocks in my mother's house,

We wake to our own rhythms.

Sometimes at four am, not moving,

But listening to the quiet breathing of the walls,

The creak of beams and gentle 'click, whoosh' as the heating engages.

We rise with the sun, early.

At breakfast we spread butter like cheese on hot crumpets,

And make no plans beyond the brewing of tea,

Oblivious to the passing of minutes.

Suffolk. Evening.

The moon has come to steal our autumn day
In woods still warm with scent of sweet decay
Tired birds winding down their heady calls take flight
Fastening their wings against coming night
It is an umber mist past which they fly
And long limbed trees marked upon a dying sky