He sings low and deep in the mornings,
and that’s when she can fool herself.
‘It would be easier,’ she thinks,
and sighs. Easier if all moments were mornings,
maybe six o’clock or so, if her watch just
stood still once in awhile.
‘The children are in their beds,’ she murmurs,
‘still asleep.’ Mellow yellow sunshine pooling on their cheeks,
eyes closed tight, lips puckered, hands crooked under heads,
for a little while.
He hums while he shaves and whistles while he cooks,
tossing the pan a few times, enjoying the sausages’ sizzle,
the spitting oil from the bacon, the smoke from blackened toast,
the twin bright orange yolks smearing.
His song changes pitch whenever a new wave
of contentment breaks. It is ever-changing, and
that makes her smile.
She can’t forget the mornings, not ever,
because she had so many. ‘Enough,’ she whispers,
‘to tide over a lifetime.’ Yellow is the colour
of all her imaginings, of a warm breakfast nook,
of sunshine flooding in all the windows,
of golden notes, thick as lemon clotted cream, rich as butter,
resonating from his lips.
Now he fries his hashbrowns and pancakes, just enough for two,
shaves a little but misses a lot,
has no reason to tiptoe past beds that are empty.
And he makes himself sing, reaching down low inside,
looking for a honeyed glow where it’s only hollow,
while she listens, filling in the rest.