Cottage at the coast
Did I spoil the dream, when I came outside?
You were Finn, my Nordic fisherman husband, in your thick woollen jumper, with your big hands and blond hair. I was your little housewife, standing by the kitchen window in my linen frock, feet bare. Washing the dishes, watching you chop wood down the hill, in the rain.
You raised the axe above your head. Split each log with one hard stroke. Brows furrowed, arms steady.
Cutlery drying. A plate dripping soap into the water. I washed the dishes without thinking.
I went to the door, pulling on gumboots and an old raincoat. Stepped down the hill. Stopped when I reached you.
And here I am, outside in the rain with you. You pause, lean on your axe.
Drops fall in the pines, in your hair, trickle down. You study me. I stare back.
“I’ve come to help you chop wood.”
You were Finn, my Nordic fisherman husband, in your thick woollen jumper, with your big hands and blond hair. I was your little housewife, standing by the kitchen window in my linen frock, feet bare. Washing the dishes, watching you chop wood down the hill, in the rain.
You raised the axe above your head. Split each log with one hard stroke. Brows furrowed, arms steady.
Cutlery drying. A plate dripping soap into the water. I washed the dishes without thinking.
I went to the door, pulling on gumboots and an old raincoat. Stepped down the hill. Stopped when I reached you.
And here I am, outside in the rain with you. You pause, lean on your axe.
Drops fall in the pines, in your hair, trickle down. You study me. I stare back.
“I’ve come to help you chop wood.”
