Smoking in the early early morning.

I sit here dry-mouthed

& moth-eaten,

my back

to the world, it doesnt need me.

The pigeon still

clatters into the air.

Noises still cloak

the morning,

without me watching them.

I turn and the garden is alight

with honey. Golden grass, toast

on the washing line

& the syrupy haze coats my eyelids.

My heart is rocking me

against the windowsill

& I can see the builders in a reflection of glass

walking on some far off plain.

Amy Austen

As a travel writer, reviewer and content writer, writing has taken her around the world, around the palate, and around the mind.

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