To Wake Up In The Morning And Be Happy For No Reason At All
There’s a kind of dripping thing
called love. I find I have done
everything to avoid it,
but let there be love as sturdy
as a white enamel bin filled with bread,
something used absolutely every day,
the kitchen table, teapot, kettle.
Let it be as sacred as a cellar door,
sideways as scullery.
liminal as doorstep,
wide as wind in the trees,
as ruby rich and spreading
as the copper beech outside.
Let it be ours, fierce in its telling,
soft in its showing
appreciated for its very existence
for here, this is heart.
photo and poem Rose Cook