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Writer's pictureMartin Pickard

First Flush


That click and hum as heating monster stirs, pipes and tanks begin to shiver in anticipation. Savouring your warm hands on my shoulders, we slowly sizzle in Balearic sun, fingers slick with soothing oil slowly basting my uncooked skin.


Music from a passing car as early bird neighbours rehearse the opening bars of the commuter chorus. I hold you tight as we gaze down on Manhattan streets where traffic slumbers, wings beating time we swoop and soar to Central Park.


A scrap of light escapes the corner of the blind, confidence growing it crawls across the sill while we throw caution to the winds. Rejoicing in the sights and sounds of summer meadow magic we roll downhill in joyful embrace, arms filled with daydreams and dandelions


Footsteps echo wooden on the stairs, the click and clack of kettle and cup. I feel your other presence slowly fade, melting back into to the shadow of another day. I curse the coming of the dawn.

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