A soft Sunday morning no different from the rest; the remnants of coffee and cornflakes from an early rise. A kiss on the forehead and the gentle brush of her dressing gown on my shoulder. Tired eyes flit through yesterday’s newspaper as the light rises just enough to cast dancing shapes across the walls. She and her are one and the same, my mother and the sun. She holds me in her warmest embrace through the darkest and cloudiest of days. Now with the sea and an hour between us, I remember the sweet idleness of those slow golden mornings.