Heavy rain flung against the window panes

wakes me in the dark. In the lull before

the next gust I hear your breath, a sound

I have known now for most of my life.

A spate of raindrops patters on the glass.

Faraway, on the kitchen windowsill,

are pots of bulbs – crocus and daffodil –

sprouting in the early morning gloom.

The sun will approach first via low, wet hills

cleft into valleys, then ancient salt pans, dew ponds,

and hedgerows tangled with blackthorn and dog rose.

And you might be awake, hearing my breath.

You are my talisman, my totem, muse,

scourge, sanctifier, love.