We spend a slow morning

At this hour, the air is wind unstilled by the April sun.
The mynahs are on errands โ€“ I hear less song more wing.
I am warmed by the habitual honey lemon
and beside me the dog is snoring.
At this hour, the room is a cup
and against its walls
time is sloshing.

 

 

Skendha Singh works as a freelance writer and editor. Her work has appeared in Dundee Writes, Antiphon, Firth, Ink Sweat & Tears, Bandit Fiction, and the Poetry School blog. She’s keen on photography, travel, and making friends with as many dogs as possible.