Early in the morning, when you're gently pulled from that deep, perdurable sleep, where concepts of past, present and future are meaningless; that's Timerise.
And when you surrender again late in the same day and are softly guided back to that realm; that's Timeset.
the comforting creaks from my stairs groan to meet me
just one of the funny old ways that it greets me
I'm grateful and thankful, they put me at ease,
not least 'cos they mask the old creaks from my knees.
I thought I saw a tiny horse
But then to my dismay
I was wrong it was, of course,
Simply far away.
The grass in my garden looks tired and weary. Having been well used and tramped down over the summer months it looks patchy in places. Leaves have started to litter the lawn and nearly cover some of the bald spots in what I can only assume is the gardens attempt at a comb-over.
Never worry about the number of days you have left.
Just always remember to carry over the one from today.
The New Day leaps onto my duvet with the tumbling enthusiasm of a puppy at play. I am not in a playful mood. I sleepily throw a ball for the New Day to fetch but it remains on the duvet pleading for attention.
Well, that's it. I'm now going to have to take this New Day for a walk.
I'm woken by the tick of the clock, or it may well have been the tock.
We fall asleep between the two, in that silent part of time which allows us to dream. That space, between the tick and the tock of the clock; well that's where everything happens.
Summer Light is slowly edging off the stage and soon its understudy, Winter Light, will take over. Performances will become shorter and shorter until we reach the darkest equinox, where the understudy will once more hand back the role.
I wake up in the morning light
my toes are sticking out the bed
with frost arriving overnight
i turn the heating on with dread
I count the cost of warming feet
I might just stay in bed
I could save money on this heat
I'll burn my bills instead
My phone alarm's set to 'Old Fashioned Police Siren'
It wakes me each morning from sleeps vast horizon
I escape from my sheets like a weary Houdini
Not sure if I'm in an old clip from The Sweeney.
The leaves will soon be brittle as they tighten in a late summer grip. Some will simply drop to form a mourning skirt around their tree. Others will be hoisted by the wind & scattered across the seasons, where they will pay their respects to autumn & winter by feeding a new year.
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