London 7am

Face down on the pillow
On another grey day
Swaddled in a duvet

Body a deadweight
Blanket a lifeline
Scanning for a sign–
What to make of this time?

Are these the golden years we prayed for?
And packed up and said goodbye
And left and walked away for?

What were we running from?
Why did we come–
and what do we stay for?

Fog says be grateful
Clouds say get out
Damp on the wall says–
Morning hope is a drought.