On The Cusp Of Morning

(Read slowly to a listening world) 

The moment in between. 
The not quite rain, nor yet the sun.
Not quite a life, not yet a death.
Between the back door and the front, 
The world entire is compressed 
In books, in screen-time, 
Yet every book, each screen refreshed
Each breath between
Is still a door. 
Open, if we will, 
To other hearts and other worlds.
Each moment that I see
And can not touch your face
Is the scent of rain-washed grass
Petrichor, the space between
Enriching what is now
And, beg patience, 
What is yet to be.


Stef Downham. Husband, father, grandfather, railway clerk, guitarist, a man fascinated by words.