His Sweet Muse

Six a.m. His poem
insists on being finished;
at least, he thought it did.
At a table in the kitchen –
struggles to recall, what
it was he forgot, just
two minutes ago.

Lays down his pen – gazes
out the window; feels
a vague vibration. Behind
the row of rubescent,
copper beeches, and from
somewhere beyond
the hollyhock hills

drifts the whistle of a train.
But it’s not that; it’s her tread
on the telltale staircase
in the hall as, softly then,
she perches on the next
to bottom one...

her hair – falling, the way
it always does, across
one eye. Through a crack
in the door, he sees her –
all T-shirt and legs,
as she draws them up
to meet her chest; expectant
toes hug the edge

of the step, clench...
unclench – just like
last thing last night,
and can sense the scent
of sleep on her – interpret
in her yawn,‘Come back to bed’.
Poem...done.