Waiting for dawn ( Morning Coffee)
Well, with coffee in hand, buttered toast and summer strawberry jam, there’s no sign of the day. Night still presses the darkness against the windows, the garden in outlines of black, lightening shadows and depths of grey.
I can see reflections of winter lights, the December Solstice and Christmas promises in the half reflections of my face, peering with hope against the window. Outside, it’s damp and mild, the cold and frost waiting in the clear skies of morning blue, hidden now behind the blankets of fog that drift over the river that runs blindly into the dips and folds of the distant valley.
I take a sip of coffee, a bitter habitual sip of caffeine, a bite of toast, the sweetness of the jam, reminding me of the heat and blossoms ripeness of summer, sleeping now, resting now, hidden in memories of the tilled and naked soil of sky and earth.
And so I open the terrace door, a slight breeze slips in to the warmth behind me. Fleetingly I hold the fading warmth of my mug of coffee, the silence is impending: something is happening. Not a bird, not a sound save the wave like softness of a car collapsing the distance and loneliness of dawn into the coming light.
It is lighter now.
The temperature dropping, trees, hedges, houses move into shape, detail and into focus. But the memory of life remains, and is still. A dripping pipe trickles water in rivulets of time and place, the only motion, movement passage of night into day, passes into the empty flower beds, into the rot and residue of autumn and decay.
I turn back close the door. It’s lighter now: no hints, no colour, no sun, no birth of crimson clouds over the eastern tip of a reluctant, slumbering world.
Inside, the heaviness of sleep, heat, and the sweet warmth of yesterday, seems a betrayal of myself. I put the mug down on the small table by the turbulence of the night before, the glasses, the plates, the knives and remains of food upon plates, and thin platters of wood.
Everyone is still asleep, no one here but the echoes of me, the me that is trying to catch hold of himself, fill myself, the hollowness of the day yet to be born, leaving me alone. My heart beats, the rush of blood in my ears, the pulse of my life irresistibly leading me to step outside of myself and into the outside that is pulling me out, up, lifting me from black to grey to the fullness of colour, vibrancy and life, for it all begins again, the opening of the dawn, the beginning of hope, the dreams of living, decisions of not maybe, but yes, and yes again.
Dawn breaks my ghouls and ghosts of disbelief, for now the hour has passed, the light of morning floods in slow waves of awakening, another life, another day.
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