markbousfield

Sweet cut butter lays on the edge of my porcelain plate,
spiced apricots in burnished rose and rusty sunrise yellow
sit half eaten like hallows of gold amongst wheat,

the breakfast smile gapes between us
warm and distant.
All we can do to stop our tired heads falling to the table,
elbows twitching nervously at the
misplaced kiss after a good day.

Sunday paper blues of the carefully led life
cast aside.