On My Birthday.

This evening,
in a fug,

I lay in the bath and I listened.

Out in the darkness
the sea has found it's winter voice
booming onto shingle, a grave Neptunous murmuring in my ear.

I listen to the tap drip,
the candle spit and hiss,
and the strains of Van Morrison echo dimly somewhere in the house.

Tiny footsteps run down the hall,
past the door
and away.

The sweetest voice I know singing as it goes.

And somewhere else
the hum of familiar voices
rumble against one another in newly discovered conversation.

And I look through the steam that swirls through candlelight,
at the robe my mother gave me against the newly painted door,

and happiness will run,
for I am beholden.

And happiness will run.