When wind stirs the trees, our

neighbour at his gate

swings a rusty hinge, I know I’m awake.

The birds call constantly, dogs distant bark

at comings and goings while

I emerge from the dark.

Mornings

often find me in places

between sleeping and weeping

for all the dust

in my aching eyes, for all the skies

I chose to ignore

for all the poetry paused for pleasure

or pain, never surfaces again,

I hear you moving

around our home, busy with living

always giving

I pause here, the sounds have stilled

only my thoughts

swirl around me like incense sticks

in the morning light.

Chris