Getting Into The Big Bed

 

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Jack Frost has painted the road white.
You slide on the ice brilliant
in the winter sunshine.
The sky is a deep frozen blue,
breath taking in its clarity.

I think of how at 6am you were
giggling and giggling in your sleep
then announced, clear as a bell,
‘that was funny.’ Your eyes shut tight.

I will never know what dreams
you have that make you laugh
but your happiness is a hot water bottle
I clutch in the night when my own darkness
is filled with missed stops, glimpses of
my mother’s ghost, the lost words of anxiety.

The boiler is broken and the cold
seeps into the bricks so that
the house creaks with uncertainty.
But you are snuggled in the bed
beside me, a special treat that says
this morning will be beautiful and warm.

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