a fifty ninth poem...'room to live'

I wandered into the living room, the reading light burning low.  On the bookshelves for the first time I noticed Picasso's dove on a greetings card, tattooed in blue: a detail so small and apparently meaningless, but nevertheless there it was - Picasso's dove.  The living room smelled of pine, and the comforting odour of warm bodies, the tree had dropped very few needles; the living room smelled of brandy too, Picasso's dove, tattooed in blue; the living room smelled of wood, wax, the reading light burning low.  I felt a stirring in my veins, your invisible touch - ink on my fingers I poured another glass of port, perhaps too much, and sat through until morning.