Raspberry Sestina

At the foot of my bed the cat sprawls spectacularly in salubrious
repose, far beyond purring, chasing giant mind-mice while I wake early
to a gospel choir of birds. I’ve come to consciousness in a kind
of excitement that courses with little thrills through a gate
within a-not-quite-remembered dream as fluid as oil
and, curiously, spiced with the sweet aftertaste of raspberry.

Rising, I’ve an urge to bake for the first time since Theo died. Raspberry
scones infiltrate the cottage nooks with their salubrious
delight. I gobble two, butter sliced thick as cheese, lick the oil
as it melts and slicks my fingers, then imagine Grace might come early,
and look up as I hear the drawl of a car idling at the gate.
Grace, my first and last enchantment in this world. Grace, the kind

of person who recalls childhood glee and ensures I do the same…