The day is damp and quiet as I'd noted it usually is
at this time. My brown linen served purpose
of warming me from the wind that hushed
the house but I am leaving his mild comfort
for another.
The truth of the mirror shows my milky feathers
that I'd left on my face from sad infancy.

The kettle wails in an octave of steam and brass
and milk sloshes coolly into its capsule, fault
from my shaking hands - an impressive chip in one glass.
I watch London spin its television reruns
on the other side of the pane and challenge a stray cat
to a staring competition. Chewed ear and licked fur.

Across the lawns creeps the sure squint
of the rising sun and my tea is left unattended.
I begin to prepare
gathering towels from the cupboard, draping
them over my arm as though I am a huntsman.
The harsh material peppers my skin and I slap at it with disgust.
Like a bluebottle scuttling greedily
through the ***** hairs.
The trusted thickness works well as I cram
them against the slits in the doors.
Not even voices should seep through.