Between us, in the bed, avocado-shaped,
eyes closed, plump-rumped and warm,
a delicious form: soft black-and-white
bulk in the lamplight, paws folded under
neatly. His fur smells like clean blankets
left out in the sun, and in his throat,
a thrum, a rumble. I touch my thumb
to his pink nose, he chirrups like a bird,
his head pushes into my palm. A fat
mug of Redbush tea, cooling by the bed,
I can smell it, I can smell the night air,
hear the rain outside, the slow lapping
of pages turning. Your foot touches mine,
your skin is clean, your face smells faintly
of shaving foam, and I read a poem I have never
read before, about the beach, the words succulent.
I read it again, and again, slowly, let it expand,
let the poem rise in my head like dough.
I shut my eyes. Ripe with bliss, I feel like
a child in her mother's arms, like a cup
being filled with milk, like a fat cat, dozing.
If you have any comments on this poem, Beccy Pert would
be pleased to hear from you.