On Waking

On Waking

Outside there's a fog
white and strange for November
and the before dawn air,
dank and humid
after the rain that fell through the dark,
is cool
and has the spicy brandied smell of the Christmas cake
cooked yesterday
and it's quiet
apart from the sound of birds
and the clock above the mantelpiece
and the relentless dripping of the kitchen tap.
Yet
I am disturbed.
I am restless
unable to sleep
unable to see in the half dark
sifting and sorting through shadows.

Judith Morgan