The dawn is breaking over the hills.
I sit, poorly managed, on the edge of my porch
to watch the sun climb. The first edge, now.
Just a hint against the lowest curves of the horizon.
Silence around, before the birds begin to call
for love and lost children. Light is piercing my pearl-grey sky,
dawn's mist fading away.
Soon the sun will warm dark hair, soft skin
but not the bones;
no, not my bones,
where wet has sunk cold and shivering
to damp the marrow heart of them.
The birds start to sing. I sip my coffee
hot enough to scald.