Saturday afternoon.

WE have lain ourselves out

Aligned to a crooked tower of sky

Where the sun can touch

Its heel to our open hearts.

The tip tap staccato of Catalan

Drifts up and swims

Around the room;

Folds our breathing bodies

Into the square

Which shifts and tinkles

Below the float.

I feel my eyes glittering

In my head

And there they are.

By my side a heap of love half-sleeping,

And another

Outlined before wrought iron,

Pretty in the shadows of

Her pages-

We smell the goodness of it,

Relish our space, its tide of calm.