Could there really be a finer hour,
than on this autumn Sunday close to three,
his tiny fingers grip my dangling hand,
and rhythmic slumber sends a reassuring hum.
As pastry smells idly pervade the room,
they tell us both that dinners’ nearly come,
soft lilting classics weigh my eyes and fill my doze,
a favoured book, slips to the floor, still unread.
Thus roused I take a final cherished sip of red,
and stroke our silent knowing dog
who guards the cot with constant eye,
at this perfect time
© Graham Sherwood 2006
