I awake before dawn
to the sound of breakers
and to the call of seagulls eating
all the unfortunate clams
that have washed ashore
with the daybreak tide.
The morning breeze moves
the curtain of my open bedroom window
and the smell that only the Indian ocean can render
begins yet another day.
The joints of my knees and neck
snap in sunrise yoga
as the silent bounce of my partner’s breasts
break a morning’s meditation
in the semi-darkness.
The glorious smell of coffee
in two small, steaming cups
clutched in long
thin fingers
mixes with the bouquet
of the sea and the
lingering aroma of
a night of love-making
which permeates
the bed linen.
The essence drifts aloft
as it flows from the moist
shaved-smooth
center of all
that is divine,
of all that is
feminine
as she silently
approaches with our
morning’s
liquid repast.
Seagulls scream
as I take it from her outstretched
hand.
