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Poem

I awaken well before dawn has thought of yawns
It is quiet then, and quite eerie in a way.
The peace deadens distractions, death-hour mourns.
The mind awakens refreshed, sparked by noir cafe.
Contemplation peaks then, and declines throughout the day.

There is no rush to milk the cows or other things.
No deadlines to meet; the slate is clean and ready.
What else can you do at such an hour, but think upon what morn brings?
No one else is mad enough to be up then, all fresh and chatty
Even the shops and streets are all mostly empty.

The sounds are muffled, hushed to not disturb,
Even the birds call out in toned-down tomes,
just to say 'Gidday' with a contrite little blurb,
like those asleep, snore gently and mutter in dreamy moans.
It is so quiet, that you can hear their gentle breathy tones.

A cock crows, a bell tolls, the garbage truck bangs day open.
The first light rings an alarm; the pre-dawn think-tank session is over.
'Good Morning' can be annoying if your stuff not strut and done.
The clatter, toil and bustle of the day makes chaos of the order,
which can only return - past day, past night, in pre-dawn embroider.

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