I wake with the dawn and the fall
of frost-heavy beech leaves,
the secrecy of the night before
profaned by a pale sun.
The hawthorn wall, now gauze,
admits rime-hardened fields,
white and unwelcome.
Last night’s embers lie
dead beside you,
the thieving air steals
your sleeping breath.

Soon the morning tourists will arrive
to cast their suspicious glances
and us as villains in their small worlds.
I know that I should wake you
but the town waits with stone hands.



John C Nash