When She Falls Asleep
when his days and years skip at anchor
within her mindís haven,
what will she dream?
Maybe of pubs and tea rooms,
spring and autumn afternoons,
coal firesí exhilaration.
Of moments plucked
from the decadesí spin.
For years, his red Fiesta drawing up,
his cap at a breezy tilt and he,
turning up to check and tend.
The chopping of her logs, the bonhomie.
Sometimes his hands, welcomed,
stroking in endearment, in ardour.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet would
be pleased to hear from you.