The Vanilla Room

Satin sheets, stained
silver by the moon;
sighs, through ancient,
wood-wormed beams,
a plaintive wind.

A veil of high cloud
shrouds the peaks
of the Munros –
caresses the coats
of hill sheep grazing
their slopes.

In the vanilla room
incense burns low;
snatched, panted breaths
fuel the flashing,
blue, green and red,
of distant Sirius.

Her hand in his –
they draw a heart –
write their names
and the date
on a misted window.

As each bleeds
into the other,
does up his jeans –
hitches a ride
at the far end
of the glen;

fog, saunters
down the valley
like a big cat
on the prowl.
On its haunches,
it sits, licks its lips,
devouring all in sight.

A haw-frost sets in.
Winking amber lights
jangle in the scrim
way below
the sleepy ridge;

traffic, speeding
this way and that.
In the west, Saturn
slowly sets; he texts
a goodbye.