When She Falls Asleep Tonight

when his days and years skip at anchor
within her mind’s haven,
what will she dream?

Maybe of pubs and tea rooms,
spring and autumn afternoons,
countryside, wellbeing,
coal fires’ exhilaration.
Of moments plucked
from the decades’ spin.

For years, his red Fiesta drawing up,
his cap at a breezy tilt and he,
turning up to check and tend.

The chopping of her logs, the bonhomie.
Sometimes his hands, welcomed,
stroking in endearment, in ardour.

Robert Nisbet

If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet would be pleased to hear from you.