It’s twelve minutes past six

In the morning

The wood pigeons are warbling

Like softened alarm clocks

Other birds chatter to remind me

I’m not tired

I’m weary

My eyes are not yet willing

To shut out the day

They know that my lids only

Close the door and trap me

Inside my head

With these thoughts and

These feelings, these voices

The grass is crystallised

In crisp, certain frost and

Dawn has painted itself cool blue

Across the sky

With the blush of day forcing the 

Fresh, wet paint to


So I turn off my light because

Daylight is flooding in

I let my heavy head sink down

Into the white cloud of my pillow and

Try to let the sunlight

Bleach my mind