Breakfast on the terrace

Our morning world
is folded
between blue
and gold.

Wisps of cloud
that scatters
in the gentle exhalation
of an oceanic sigh.

The mountains
reflect nothing
but heat,
panting monoliths.

Landscapes painted
onto a backdrop
of sterling silver
and china white

Edges etched
in bright lines
on a shifting canvas
of summer sky.

Eggs are beaten
and added to the pan,
the sizzle
of olive oil,

The tightening
of feathered edges,
and babies
rumbling belly.

She hides and giggles
on the terrace,
the pleasure of
a slow Sunday breakfast.

-Dave Kavanagh

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