Waking at 6:30

I creep around the dark shadowy corners,

Of an early Sunday morning

I’ve no need to displace my world view with the waking of my brain patterns,

Glide around the edges and witness without intervention the subtle lightening of the tattered clouds and the silver-grey holding of the frost on the ground leaves,

Sitting in a corner of my room, sipping strong, hot coffee and smoking a dirty cigarette as the planet slowly joins me for another day,

The wheel spun and stopped on winter