Morning

Broken

Cyclically finding, in the agony 
of the morning, a day is born. 
Internally screaming, audibly 
to myself, the unspeakable is
making itself heard.

In, or by, the chemical imbalances,
these irrational fears are burning
this, reluctantly half-waking, body with
stinging, tempered cold daggers. I look 
and find a hand I know on the hilt.

I lengthen the nights with 
distractions and pipe-possibilities
to postpone this inevitability, this arrival,
this lowest part of the new day.
And so I have no choice but to rise. 

Me and the dog go to the sea and
yearn, both, to be revivified by
a wetness, in some form. It all depends.
Sometimes this works out and other
times just makes things worse.

If I do sleep, I dream of spells, charms
or potions which soothe the ailments or
side-effect bouts of forgetfulness and good humour.
But mostly they are cast towards those
to whom my mornings lie shipwrecked upon.

---

Penzance, Cornwall, Morning. Nikon d750

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