There are times
when waking
she thinks
death has brushed
by her
in the night.
Teasing with cold,
colourless, slow wings
a quaking heart
still blood beating.
Heavily,
through its thickening
veins, the fatigue
of lifes history advances.
Lazy, as
sleep drifting,
old age creeps
each morning
without warning
of its impediments.
She drinks vermouth.
Early.
Sally Plumb
