A racket of rooks and seagulls

dispels the quiet grey air
blending with the sea,
its horizontality
stretching out across and up
to meet the sky.

The birds are distressed -
too many predators out
on the lawns
and the feathery green of
trees in this small town
not cover enough
for a quiet life -
the traffic grinds by
and somebody yells
as a bicycle cycles the wet.

The day is diffuse,
recalcitrant, roofs greasy
and the air cool.
The trees are dry as the season
begins to end in hibernation and the
ticking of their leaves
attests to an imminent fall.
A pall of grey hovers
over the water and the window
drums against itself.

Inside, in here, in the warmth
of a bed, propped pillows,
we are two heads near
enough to touch,
engaged with pen and words,
the rush of thought
and coffees by the hand.

One small Saturday morning
a standard for our lives
of quiet and content
and outside in the corridor
voices live as
kettles are filled
and this Hall is busy with its
life making tea and
thinking of the day's events,
the study, the drinking.

A raucous horn
disturbs our ears as
some young man arrives
to stare up at the stone -
willing some young woman
to look out - a raised arm,
a shout, and the minutes
roll on, engine running.

Quietly, I sit, with coffee and my man.
There is no plan
for our day, for the rest of time
allotted us -
we'll take our chances
in this push and shove of days
and later, I'll remember
a quiet sea-grey gaze,
remember what it meant for me,
that roll of surf sliding quietly
out of mind and
into memory.

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