Mousehole

Shifting focus from farm to stars the drifting night begins where listless day turns to mist. Beyond the harbour bar boats put out to sea. By dawn the salty breeze is flecked with foam it peppers the Postie as he makes his way around the quay. He stops to watch the fishing boats ploughing home through pearly sea. And dreaming of what the day might bring sleepy couples, yawning, pad downstairs. In chorus all the kettles sing above the morning news of stocks and shares. And thirstily, a hundred cups of tea are raised to lips simultaneously.