Lock-down shopping

Dawn again on our street in Saigon.

Lock-down shopping

I always seem to write shopping lists
That seldom leave my pocket –
Returning instead with unexpected treats.
It feels a luxury of sorts
To wander the aisles
As an interloper.

I prod at flagons of yellow-crested olive oil,
Visions of flour-caked aprons
Kneading the dough
And pouring the Pinot
In that moment
Of ordinariness.

That freedom of choice.

This Morning’s Dawn


This morning’s dawn on our bed-sheet
Glows as it did yesterday.
Summoning into consciousness
A mundane familiar –
Jumbled thoughts,
Whispered finger-tipped
Touches, stretched out limbs.
Nothing here lies
In deference to a higher code,
Nor to a haunting pandemonium.

Through our window yellow sunbeams taunt
And pierce translucent bowing fronds,
Blinking time into place.
In steeped Earl Grey,
A soothing balm – a Blessed relief! –
Nothing here pretends
Any difference need unfold,
Nor mask that which matters most
In each wondrous, sentimental stroke
Of this morning’s dawn.