pedestrian crossing

central p

on this wet stave, our uncoordinated
footsteps strum a pattern of blues notes,
syncopated with raindrops, tuned

to the drip, drip, drip of water down our open
collared, dressed-in-a-hurry outfits;

counterpointed by your persistent kisses, my
slippery, hand-grasping fingers, reaching for
that dry-skin warmth of recent memory

for that under-the-doona closeness, left just
minutes ago for this dash out into the real
horn-honking, bus door-slamming, policeman-

shouting, busker-singing, ice-cream-buying public;
where the curled cord that connected us
to the thrumming power surge of love

is invisible, too short, unviable, and threatens
with sharp sparks to short-circuit as we
stand in a soggy line for raspberry gelato

and the only way to save our song
from certain extinction is to run
red-lipped back through the rain

fumble with the door key, slide
laughing over puddled floors

and dive back into
our final coda

© Julie Thorndyke

Morning Song


Within the muesli box
within the fridge
within the wholemeal loaf
within this egg.

Within the honey jar
within the marg
within this dream of life
imagined large.

Within the coffee pot
within your cup
within each melted drop
your toast mops up.

Within the Wednesday rush
within your kiss
within each measured word
our story is.

© Julie Thorndyke

first published Islet  2010