Here's to those lazy Sundays.
A freckled smattering of morning light,
Like drops of golden honey,
Pouring like velvet through open blinds,
Across rosy cheeks.
Here's to those bed-stubborn days.
All tangled sheets,
Feet, and clashing teeth,
Soft kisses like dew drops,
Tickled ribs and fluffy lips.
Here's to the kitchen kettle train-whistling.
One stop to the perfect Sunday morning,
With sun-soaked eyelashes
And tea-stained tongues,
Weaving chilly fingers around china mugs.
Here's to the herbal enamour
Of the sacred morning brew.
Of steam-soaked pores
and rose-bitten noses.
Snapshot of a clear Sunday sky.
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For The Hemp Garden, Camarthenshire