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 see the ducks,

in the grass, playing with the rain;

and finally contentment-

here it comes- to sit next to me.