Winter's First Calendar Day
Nothing much is scheduled. The same drift of cloud loops over a low hill.
Everything else is mist.
Just over the line, just out of physical sight, a future crouches.
Out of the corner of a whimsical eye: palm trees, pineapples, postcard colours.
On a salt breeze comes laughter, comes glass to glass chinking.
Perhaps we’ll walk over there.
Perhaps is a word of possibility.
Mud shines, mist lifts, sun, emergent.
Tips of fingers bare and chill, toes in boots warm as crumpets.
We walk just the usual paths with nothing much scheduled; hum a little something.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
Everything else is mist.
Just over the line, just out of physical sight, a future crouches.
Out of the corner of a whimsical eye: palm trees, pineapples, postcard colours.
On a salt breeze comes laughter, comes glass to glass chinking.
Perhaps we’ll walk over there.
Perhaps is a word of possibility.
Mud shines, mist lifts, sun, emergent.
Tips of fingers bare and chill, toes in boots warm as crumpets.
We walk just the usual paths with nothing much scheduled; hum a little something.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
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