The Mystery of Before
The morning comes slowly,
first with a faint glow growing
in the sky above the fence,
then lifting to prod the feet
of clouds as if to wake them
and raise their rain heavy weight
up off the horizon.
My body fills the contours
of an old chair, positioned to catch
the first rays coming through
the window to see off the long night.
There are times when I feel
that the darkness will never end,
a thick black pall falling
across all thought,
but it goes and I begin
to take in the day. Some trick
of memory assembles me again,
puts me in a familiar place where
I know where the cups
and the coffee beans are kept
and somewhere
in my mind a gallery opens
with wall after wall
of familiar faces
and pictures of the past,
time stamped and strung out
way back to where all becomes
an impenetrable blur, nothing more
than a dreamless sleep out of which
I emerged as me
from the mystery of ‘before’.
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