Sunday Morning, 11 O'Clock

Morning slices through the darkness 
Like the opening of some long forgotten tomb. 
We lay there, tucked away in silence

Between the sheets; Embalmed in one another.
Turning softly, groaning in contempt of waking, 
Our tired limbs stretch out before of us.

The mid-day sun pours through the open window 
Of our sitting room like honey; dripping slowly, 
Encasing all it touches in its amber glow.

Steps echo on the cobbled street below us.
The city too is only getting to its feet 
As I, half dressed, get up to set the table.

In the kitchen you begin to cook; eggs sizzle
In the pan; the kettle grumbles to the boil
And the warm smell of toast, envelopes us. 

We sit cross-legged, plates in our laps,
Turn the TV to something simple and 
Let the morning come to us. 

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