The rain was beating rhythmic patterns
against the window of the Matterns’.
Mrs. Mattern leaned lazily
and looked out into the dancing sea.
And with the waves mellifluous ruse,
she was lured away deep into her muse
of days bygone when grass was green;
she filled with nostalgia, forsaken dreams.
The mister poked at the firewood
glanced at his wife and slowly stood.
He heard her sigh; watched her shoulders rise and fall,
wondering if she needed her shawl.
It hung across the back of the chair.
He fiddled the fabric; wrapped it 'round her with care.