Nest House
· One min read
We brighten our eyes
to the smell of wildness
and singed sausages
and consider the day's
lavender-clouded possibilities.
Our escape is
submerged by weir-drone,
the brick indellibly etched in flood.
Higher than you'd guess, scored
to my chest, to your light shoulders.
Plunge into the river-brisk
to clear heads,
give up to currents,
before scrambling up banks,
mud hiding in our toes and thumbnails
Our rest is overseen by the portraits of others' lives
as we browse books by the ebb-fire
surrounded by steaming socks.
We curl on the sofa
and snore with the mice.
I think: I will marry you here.