By Laura Griffin

Applaud the first coffee of the day

that help the unholy moments of the morning make some kind of sense

the morning sky as clean as a new slate and as blue as unsullied joy

the slippers softer than clouds after a long day away from the stillness of sanctuary that others call home.

Waiting for the pot of vegetable peelings and scraps to boil into liquid gold,

Feeling the sunshine kisses through the window that seek you out like a desperate lover,

Waiting for the sourdough to rise for the fourth time today,

Feeling the soft cotton pyjamas on tired skin, 

the monthly aches and stains that come like a clockwork curse

warmed and washed away in the dark of nightly calm.

Exalt the north-facing bedroom on a hot afternoon, 

a surrender to cool and blue and relief, 

the net curtains lazily ballooning in a jellyfish dance;

the afternoons of ignored achy knees and mud under fingernails,

today’s herbs now planted for tomorrow’s kitchen medicine;

the taste of salty popcorn that clings to your fingers and lips and memories,

even as the celluloid distraction fades. 

Feeling the ghostly kiss in the shell of your ear from a ghostly love, 

echoes of what might be and what has been,

Waiting on the postman for words from a dear, distant friend, 

words of affection written in indelible ink,

Feeling every blustery salty shove on the January beach, 

every cobweb blown out to sea whilst mermaids fish for dreams,

Waiting for the tea to steep,

one teaspoon for you and one for the pot,

honeyed Earl Grey the sweetest taste at the kitchen table

when all the chores are done.

Praise the winds that fly through the branches of the old pine tree, 

singing a tune well known to the centuries; 

the friendly black cat that arches against a stranger’s leg,

looking for the familiar in the new; 

the soft crisp air on a red October day,

that make poets wish that autumn was a country.

Waiting for your cue offstage, 

brain a-jumble with lines that straighten out just as you need them,

Feeling suddenly a part of something sacred

over a pint of beer with past strangers who now know you better than yourself,

Waiting for the chicken to roast in the last days of winter,

a promise of better days and sunnier thoughts, this taste of weekend paradise,

Feeling heartstrings being tuned and the rosy fire of unkissed cheeks stoked, 

no matter how hopeless, no matter how helpless. 

Glorify the last almond croissant

devoured on Saturday morning 

before the demands of consecrated rest takes hold; 

the smell of freshly cut grass

on the first weekend that Spring shakes her flowered, radiant head;

revisiting a favourite book like a beloved aunt,

seeing how far you’ve grown since last time, 

as you return home as many times as you need. 

Feeling a kiss on waiting lips,

years past stripping it down to the bare essentials

but still full of feeling on a Wednesday morning,

Waiting for the train’s arrival as the runaway whirligig of time turns quicker and quicker,

only abated by the well-read library book, 

thrice renewed,

Feeling every dream, and half-wish, and fleeting heartbeat in the wrong direction,

thankful that a heart cracked and fragile

can still beat, and pine, and love without breaking entirely,

Waiting for goodness knows what,

or goodness knows who,

but most likely for the magic ordinary to restart

tomorrow

and 

tomorrow.

Just like a promise, 

like a spell,

like a song,

like a lullaby,

like a life.