In
your
floral duvet
we are cucooned
adrift in your silky sheets.
The thrum of early morning traffic carries up
from the tree-lined boulevard below
up past houses
and austere
church
spires.
I
imagine
we're turning,
yes, turning Japanese
and we're dream-walking in Kyoto.
It is evening, early April, cherry blossom everywhere.
The world is swathed, festooned
in every delicate
shade of
silky
pink.
We
drift
along slowly
and safely alone.
We bathe in this half-light
and in the ghost-humming of some ancient bell
that some monk has struck –
a sacred ritual
in some
temple
yard.
