My third poem published in the ‘High Tide’ Anthology

Our Child

In Italy we first dreamt you.
Spoke you out of dust on drifting summer strolls
through winding Venetian streets.
We sketched your outline on gnarled chattering tables
and drank your laughter in long gulps of blood red Chianti.
On the dark sands of the Lido we moulded your future
As the green lagoon whispered its glistening promise.

Back home, the grey screen sketched your outline - still.
Silent.
A promise broken.

So, on bitter November nights we draw the blanket round,
and howl to the wind for our lost dream. 
Curled tightly together
We paint you, with our longing,
bright as the Italian sun on shimmering sea.
We close our eyes and strain
to hear the murmured oath of its waves once more.

Summer returns and we emerge,
soles soaked in morning dew.
Under cool warmth of sunrise
still we wait
patiently
for you.

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