Mildew on the porch

Mildew on the porch,

Wet floor boards,

Encircled hearts engraved in the wood.

Steam rises above the bowl of porridge

Warmth spreading throughout her hands

Travelling through the lines who’ve known old age.

Droplets parachuting down onto his head:

A little boy.

She has her left hand up,

Pats his hair.

There, there.

It’s just a little rain.

The sky meshes with the porridge

And the steam;

A tango of difference yet similarity.

At some point,

The door will creak,

Once the hours pass.

The sky will be left outside.

And by the fire,

The drops will cease to echo

In the creases of the patio.

Then when she’s turned to dust and flown away,

Steam will rise from porridge bowls again

A certain pitter patter will come back -

Blaring -

It’ll be for her.

For how she sat on the mildew stained porch.

Droplets will fall into the bowl,

Yet the spoon will still reach his lips,

The sky having mixed with the sugar,

And he’ll say:

Really, it’s just a little rain.