It was your decision to remain on the island

So that you could finish your book of flowers

But the skies are now more grey than blue

We sleep with an extra blanket on our simple bed

As time seems to drag its sadness around

I beachcomb as you write

It is a lazy but rewarding occupation

And passes the time without demand

We now dine in the late afternoon instead of the evenings

The food tastes the same

But the theatre is different

As people rarely smile

They fear the clouds

That bring the night

To this the most exotic of islands

When the warm winds return

You will have finished your book of flowers

And we will laze the days away

Not caring at all about the bleak winter thoughts

That currently occupy our island lives