This morning

Like mist,
the morning walks
into my waking,
for the moon has left my sky
(she
is still asleep).

Outside no thrush
is singing its stake,
all is quiet.

Is the world still there,
beyond the window?
The row of houses past our plot
seems so ghostly,

as the colours of my dreams
become shrouded
in lifeless greys.
                                                                                  
So I stretch my arms into a yawn,
and call those colours back in.

This morning
(while she is still asleep)
I will build my own home.

And in our garden now
a thrush braves the mists
and summons the sun.