Mid-morning in March
weekly poem | I prise apart the shell of the morning with my hands
Mid-morning in March
All night, I slept poorly. Now it is morning, a muggy light
coming in. March. The brink of summer and a dull throbbing
in my head. But the sky! The sky! Is brighter than ever. I open
the curtains. I prise apart the shell of the morning with my hands,
with my bodymind. Inside, I find a silvering blue. A memory
of a dream. An aftertaste of sleep, like warm milk. For an hour,
I watch the sky. The sharp blueness of it all clatters in my mind,
almost painful, almost delightful. I rub my temples. I dip a sachet
of tea into boiling water. The colour bursts out in smoky plumes,
like the feathers of a dark and mythical bird. I take a long sip.
I watch the sky some more. I let the still fog of my thoughts
settle and scatter across distant lowlands. Somehow, someway,
the day begins.
This poem provides a very vivid and memorable description of a person endeavouring to wake up after sleeping badly and finding it difficult to dissolve what seems like a thick fog of thoughts. But somehow the new day - the new march morning - with its call to life again, begins to win out, despite the many things that may have caused that 'dull throbbing' in the poet's brain.
"I watch the sky some more. I let the still fog of my thoughts
settle and scatter across distant lowlands. Somehow, someway,
the day begins."
I prise apart the shell of the morning- great line! Good description of a slow waking.