Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
At my Hill’s Hoist, beneath the stars
Pegging uniforms, towels and bras
After chaos of dinner, bath, bed
Each squealing child’s laid down his head
The house so quiet and dead asleep
The sensual flap of a cool damp sheet
I am of, am one, with the night
I dissipate, tiny, out of sight
With each wet item lifted, hung
I breathe in deep, a day is done
Yasmin Gunn yasmingunn@ymail.com