Jan 152014

by Anne Whitehouse



I lay slipping into sleep

as a delicious breeze washed over me,

blown in from the sea, warmed by the land,

clear and sparkling, yet soft as a caress.


From the open window, I thought

I heard a voice calling me

“Mama!” through the green summer,

across the long years.


Sunwashed, seastruck, windswept,

Sunstruck, seaswept, windwashed,

Sunswept, seawashed, windstruck.


In contentment I lay, not wanting to rouse,

in delicious reverie, as if drunk from lovemaking,

languorous and mellow, ready for the fall.