If I were here
If I were here.
If I were here I would spend the morning steeping ground coffee over fireplace embers. I would sip a cup full of it by the window as I curled cat-like with my fingers slowly warming around the clay mug.
I would open the door to let the first light in and it would cast a gold-specked ray of dawn on the French oak floor.
If I was here, I would be adorned in dust pink. It would be a long, translucent dress and it would sweep the grass as my bare feet glistened wet with the previous evening’s dew.
I would wander out into the caterpillar-green garden and nestle in clusters of lavender, crush the leaves between my thumb and forefinger and let them slip in oily scent.
I would wait for the afternoon, when a whisper-gentle wind would spin pollen in bending golden threads. They would bob like scented sea-horses on the currents of the breeze.
I would reach out to touch them as a child pops liquid bubbles, but my hand would retreat at the last moment and instead my fingers would fold into a delicate frame to view them from.
If I were here I would sense a warm ease at dusk.
The darkness would rush in quickly, subsumed by dense foliage. The cottage would draw me back in and as I lit the fire my feet would find it hard to adjust to the cool, dry wood beneath me.
I’d put on woolen socks.
I’d keep the dust-pink dress on and it would glow warmer with the fire as a low peachy cloud is lit from within by a sunset.
If I were here the inky indigo darkness of midnight would call me to slip out of bed, pour warm red wine, open the door and sit on the cold stone step beneath.
I’d close my eyes briefly and sip.
When they opened, the garden would be as the sky; pin pricked with bobbing points of light, where fireflies, suspended in their own infinities, would glimmer and twinkle until I slept.
If I were here.