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,

That’s enough, out of bed, now—

Morning hope is a drought.