How beautiful, those early mornings
the sun- not yet in the sky
and the clouds, an even layer scorning
standing still there, to deny
us of the light;
oh how beautiful it is- standing in disarray
brewing tea, in those early english morns,
keeping the candles lit, for the sun won’t come today;
and as the birds perform-
and I approach my cup,
with old milk and stale scones,
from the window you can...
