When Morning Comes Slowly

A dog barks
Before true light;
A greyish blue of nothing; 
A peppering of rain on the glass;
The soughing wind
And familiar rattling of the slates
Signals of the day ahead.


A fragile beauty in the a single  note of 
Birdsong…
Muffled but true.
But no answer given.

Battleship grey
Of micaceous haematite,
The sky’s hue lightens
Through the mist
The birds stay silent
The wind is stilled
The drizzle has no sound

The world is waiting
The morning is slow to come 
And so we wander through winter.