Mornings are refracted, a Nicol prism
shadow land, death overstaying its nightly
berth. The paling sky nudges it out,
in crumpled bedclothes, unsightly,
as it hurriedly gathers them about –
the start of another diurnal catechism.
Sleep layers the kitchen pane, grey
and pallid, a maid rudely shook awake.
It’ll be a while before its baleful stare
loses its blear, becomes less opaque
with the lightening air,
readies for the white implacable day.
I put the kettle on, mulling ghosts loath
to leave, bleak litany of a life’s course.
A flight departs for somewhere, cutting
briefly through the fog; till tea restores
routine, the familiar stir shutting
out debris, wrecks, ruins of youth.