by Lise Day
I could ask how would you like your egg
or say ‘Please pass the toast’
but again you have disappeared into the night.
Every forty-five seconds the lighthouse beam
flashes on my closed eyelids.
Calamari boats bounce light from the sea
onto my bedroom ceiling.
The rusting chimney cap squeaks the minutes
as the wind turns to the south-east.
Grey light creeps between my gauzy curtains
I draw them back to the uncertain day.
Dawn brings sunbirds, a smiling dog, caring cat –
but not you.