Too soon crows pull on their dusty jackets.
Coughing and shuffling they rise before dawn,
shouting their “good mornings” across the lawn,
and I must wake and rise and leave a kiss.
Too soon commuter cars squeal their tyres.
Stamping hooves and shaking their manes they yawn
and by fresh cut daylight leap and are gone,
and I must wake and rise and leave a kiss.
Your sleepy breath makes links to chain me here
caged by sleeping arms, held down by your side.
I wonder: if I leave, may I return?
Your waking eyes may never be so near
and jealous moon may raise a baleful tide.
But I must leave to hope I may return.