Dawn

Twelve early mornings in my life I've sat sleepless inside a dream, watching the early mornings rise.

In my life there are moments such as this that are remembered forever. There are moments that linger on; in memory and sound, in light and shadow. And in all these mornings I remember the same caress of cool wind, the same smell of early  morning foods.

And me. Neither hungry nor tired but wide awake at the fantasy of shuffling rays rippling up in the air. Cliffs abandoning their shadows. Night warriors on their last patrol.

I am neither because I am all. All I see in the dawn.

I know many parts of me in this time. I know the sounds of solitude . Brilliant crystalline solitude. While every occupied space still lies in wait for momentum to inspire them towards daylight, I am already here. I am always here. Waiting. Willing. Wanting. The fruits of the mania. The grace in the perfection that is the assuredness of the existence of today. As it always has been. As it always will be. Though the sun may burn itself through. Though the earth may cease its rotation. The dawn I share, this dawn in me, continues on; never to be set down in entropy.


I am a walking cloud. Too light to rain I write my droplets on to the page. Splashes of sun creating rainbows in the mist.


What do I see?


The wings of a bird set in dew. The sliver like beams of light and shadow across building tops. The arching raven, coal black wings. The sky, pink-blue sky, a perfect shade of metaphor. Before corruption wakes and sets in. Before the markets hum and the bells chime. Before the beggars kneel and the cars whirl and promenade. Before this, before all of this, there is me. Me and the dawn and the silence.


Dawn, my dawn! My rippling clothes-line laundry sprinkled dew. My morning with no night. My day with no end. My perpetual weakness;


to be here when nothing stirs,

but you

and me.