Pyjama’d and dressing-gowned
we step outside at 5 am
into the crisp dark.
The lawn
crackles with frost
beneath our slippered feet.
No northern lights, only pink streaks of cloud,
pinpricks of stars,
and the bruised bauble of a three-quarter moon.
The neighbour’s larch-tip
tickles Orion’s belt; his three-starred sword
points to our empty bedrooms.
You shiver by the black hole of the pond,
distant as Venus; then return indoors
for tea and Oprah, leaving me to hear
a blackbird’s clink, an early morning bus.
Just we two. And a home too big for us.
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