Now ageing, and living
the long months of low sun
where slate grey or silver sky hung,
where bare trees scratch black lightning,
peppered hair on virgin white pillows.
Dreams bled to monochrome.
I wake to find Her back to me
and the rolling hills of blanketed hips.
My hand on her hot rump
a warm reminder,
as a sun-baked rock at midnight
of the gone day’s heat.