Tom Dylan

On a bright cold Sunday morning

On a bright and cold Sunday morning

I set out on my all-important quest,

the roads and pavements are empty

at this early hour,

the shops all have their eye-lid shutters

pulled down tight.

 

My breath hangs on the air as I walk.

I wrap my coat tighter around me

and quicken my pace.

The blue morning sky over-head

hints at a warm afternoon,

an image of cold beer and

garden furniture

comes to my hopeful mind.

 

I walk on to the only open shop,

jangling the change in my hand,

lured to the glow of the welcoming light.

 

The glass milk bottle is cold in my grip

as I return home to the boiling kettle.