In the hills above Genoa.
Feeble light of dawn.

I rise,
Toes curling as I cross the cold floor.
Open the window.
Ease apart the shutters.
Lean far out to secure catches.

Mist hides yesterday's scattered habitation:
Ochre smudges amid the vivid green. 
Cloud swirls around the Sanctuary.
Cars as vague shapes. 

Red roof tiles
Gleaming with beaded moisture.
Yesterday, you told me
Each tile was softly rounded;
Turned as clay
On the thighs of artisans.

You're asleep
In your separate bed
Across the large, plain room:
Blanket rising and falling.

Someone hurries down the corridor:
Impatient tattoo of a woman's heels.

I return to bed.
Lie awake, smiling:
Savouring
The gentle ticking of our lives.

(c)  Stephen Collicoat 2005