Saturday, 3 September 2011
Now at 6.30 in the morning, it's still dark.
In a sleeping house, I go through familiar routines.
Fill a kettle with water, feed the dog, put slices
Of bread in the toaster. These small, everyday
Actions in the half light of approaching Autumn.
Soon, the household will wake, and the usual
Demands step in and take over. For now, these
Precious minutes to myself. Precious minutes,
To spend time with me; meet the stranger inside
And slowly coax her out. Find out, yet again,
What makes her tick. Precious stranger.
Always here and always hidden,
Waiting to be found.