Golden fingers creep the curtain from below
To tinker at the horizon’s edge
A quiet interlude
Anticipation
A tuning up.
Then heavenwards shoots and weaves a celestial trellis
A filigree of burnished light that bursts from high
To explode and fill the eastern sky
With vermillion, scarlet, tangerine and rose.
It’s daybreak.
Dawning.
And so, the yawning world comes alive
To stretch
And shake the mantle of the night
To fling it to the furthest corner of the universe.
To banish it from sight.
At home
There is a stirring
The pad of slippers on the stair
The sound of kettles, spoons, toasters, plates, and dormant wirelesses come-alive
Blackbirds, robins, mewling babes
The rolling out of bins
Morning smells
Of bacon and of toast
Twitch the nostrils,
They raise the spirits, fill the house, and draw the risen to the table
Car doors slam
A jarring syncopation
As quiet streets start to fill
With traffic that crawls, coughs, then catches its breath
In a gasping logjam brought to a slowing, eddying, stop.
The air lies heavy with man-made clouds
The unseen now made visible
Suffused with tastes
That chase away the morning meal.
The noontide sun
A shadow of its former self
Peers down from height
Small, diminished, and almost white
The glories of its golden birth
Snatched
And lost to mobile phones.
Lunchtime sounds:
The shouts and squeals of schoolyard games, of workers’ gab, and orders at the bar,
Of radio news, the screech of brakes, motorcycle, bus and car
Then back to work.
Quiet hum of conditioned air, coffee mugs and biscuit tins,
Desktops lost to paper piles
In, out, pending
The chit and chat of office life
Clock hands seem not to turn
But the workday ticks towards its ending.
And so for home
The traffic’s reeling in
Reversed
The stop
The start
The door
The key
The glass of wine
Familiar smells, a favourite chair
To sit, eyes closed, to slump
In the cooling evening air.
The jumper’s on
As lengthening shadows
Distance from the sun
And branches stretch their reach
Grey flickering flames
They creep the lawn
And silently climb the bricks.
Decision made:
key turns
lock clicks
the swish of curtains drawn.
The evening settles like an old settee
Stuffed
With dishwasher sounds that turn and tumble
A jumble of soaps, rock, arguments, and laughs
A dib, a dab,
Of whispered news
A painter’s palette
Of oohs, and ahs, and well-I-nevers
Colour added.
Impressions made.
Now yawning and stretching again return
Watches checked
The duvet beckons
and
one
by
one
the
lights
go
out.
As night-time falls
Slippers climb
And peace descends upon the close.
But beyond the pane
In shadowed alleys concealed
Or bathed in lunar lambent glow
Or in neon starkness caught
The darkness brings
A new dawning.
The bark of fox, the cry of owl,
Alarm and siren
A chained dog’s howl
The smash of crockery…
To fill whatever time
Remains of the day.
Author's Note: Inspired by The Remains of the Day (Kazuo Ishiguro)