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Sunday morning she’s still asleep and breathing soft
awoken by the kettle whistle
send from the distant moss-hung keep to the drowsy croft
a prayer my flower won’t become her thistle
as i train my fingers to the steel to bring us luck
and now she’s found my weakness
she’s in my heart and in my dreams and in my waking up
she’s in the clay and the landscape drawing on my coffee cup

Bleary-eyed the dawn birds sing their songs of love
looking for someone to hold them
free from all our aimless thoughts they fly above
like us just doing as mother told them
in leaving footprints in the lawn when the dew drops freeze
while the world keeps spinning
she’s in the keen touch of the frost and the wind that moves the trees
she’s in the smoke from the bonfire burning up the autumn leaves

I numb my fingers in the steam watch the dog run away
from safe behind my window
i think up rhyme to keep us calm and fill the day
now she’s in each vowel and consonant of every word i say

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