Gentle breathing.
Sleepy snuffles.
And the duvet's waking ruffles.
Rising above morning buses and London birds.
The boiler kicks in.
Naked feet pad to the loo.
And run back to the creaking bed.
The sounds of lovemaking.
Humm and ah.
Then the door slams shut.
And the clink of crockery clinks in the sink.
The return.
The door slams shut again.
The electric kettle gurgles and hot water glugs over black aromatic granules.
A sugary stir and settling in.
Newspaper rustles and the silence of reading.
A quiet, mindful silence.
Then running water.
Clicking heels.
The turning of bookshop pages.
And Sunday outside begins.

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