Quiet, quiet, quiet
I could hear frogs on the golf course this morning
as I tramped home from the bus stop,
your kiss still singing on my lips.
The stars were drifting away,
the moon snoozing on the other side of the globe,
and the sun, still abed,
was turning the East turquoise and gold: byzantine sunrise.
It was too early for the doves to be echoing their two-tone call,
the peacocks were peaceful –
even the mynah birds were not arguing the price of a worm.
Thin mist floated in hollows, pixillating the club greens
and the air almost tasted of the sea.
No dog walkers, no school children,
the local cats huddled away for warmth.
Too early for the workers’ cars, too early for the joggers.
Only the last warmth of your hand in mine
and the bubbling of the frogs
to tell me I’m not alone.
Note: I wrote this poem before the great slaughter was revealed, so it hardly reflects the current situation, here in er, Paradise. (See Living in Exile for an explanation)