An Ode to Omolara
Light filters through the gap
Between 30’s single-glazing and
Those misfit, yet widely-sold 90s IKEA drapes.
Its 4:30am but I’m not mad.
Winter has passed and I awake next to you.
In its own right.
The first trickles of sunlight
The strands of red, the quarter Irish
In your ink-black hair, the freckles illuminating,
Sexier somehow, without the make-up,
Chinks in the armour like the crack
In the imperfect curtains, let your true soul escape,
As you open your beautiful eyes, lids a fluttering.
A butterfly escaping the microcosm of its dream-like chrysalis,
Smooth skin breathing new life in the dew
Warm brown velour, all enveloping, soft,
Like the breeze squeezing through the broken pane.
Like a tortoise awakening from hibernation,
Heart-rate increasing, smile re-affirmed,
She hits the snooze button,
Quite why the alarm went off so early,
I’m not quite sure and despite myself I admit
I love you,
And that you need blinds.
Omolara reaches for the stars, stretching her feline body,
Rib cage lifting, diaphragm depressed, exhaling slowly with a groan.
I use the manoeuvre to rest my head in the crook of her neck,
Warm, safe, secure, ensconced in her smell,
A response not needed or craved.
At half-seven my own alarm chimes and late, for yet another commute,
I quickly dress in yesterday’s clothes.
A hung-over fashion victim in the half-light,
Once more, half-heartedly, declaring my intention
To quit drinking.
Tom Dearden, 2013