Morning Time
Previous dawns flock together,
gather.
The hedgerows accumulate
with old and new. Sprigs and twigs
bend under the weight of
heaping feathers.
If eyes open too soon
then a few mornings go missing,
some are still catching up
they will fly in backwards
tumbling out
of windswept decades.
Eyes that open too late have to wait,
have to stare at a future blankness
while ears gatecrash the present.
Will the thrown newspaper
land on the lower or upper step?
Such collective collections
determine next steps.
The percolator has mixed together
a thousand morning
yet it arrives in normal time
as one brew.
Outside, beds creak in the tree tops.
blankets unroll.
We find ourselves on the verge
of all previous verges,
swing legs to touch a floor
that rises
to show up once more.
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