Waking before light and slow numbers on the bedside clock;
the soft thud of newspaper, the world begins again.
A calling of purpose to rise from warm, flannel sheets,
the last day of the week; a day to be ready.
The early morning birds sing me awake, while I dream
of traffic routes, movement, speech - the tests of today.
The urgency of Sunday, church chimes float through
my heathen space, my heart belongs to this pen - a creative, unbuilt worlds.
A deceptive spring peeks in my blinds, bright
icy air beckons, while my love blows a kiss, and breezes out the back.
A red room, blue sky, white dreams -
a new day - how can I choose my colours?
An alarm clock spills the world into my room, chaos of political strife,
ticking bombs, dividers - I find safety next to a warm body, unclenched hands.
Tea for one, an unfinished book, still morning;
an early international call. A warm breeze off the sea.
I wake, on the other side of strong cross-currents, in this place -
a table of poets, a lofty bed, soft light through bay windows and no bay.
Four walls and a cup of tea greet me, a sense of somewhere
and the hours roll out before me like curled receipts.