The mystery of morning

Thick socks fall in loops over ankles  
displayed like the slipped towel of a naked back  
pushed further down by a bashful hand,  
innocent of the artists eye.  
 
Pale hairy soleus protrude to  
shuffle across cold cracked tiles  
all silent but a hiss of burning gas,  
the frightened kettle screeches a warning  
and I appear outside in heavy frost.  
 
Thick white mascara brushed onto cobwebs  
that cantilever wooden slats.  
This is where my spider goes  
cold toes, cold toes, cold toes!  
   
A bird has laid eggs in my hair  
so I should probably eat them,  
will they be breakfast fried  
or boiled for lunch, maybe  
scrambled for supper?  
 
This page is reaching out  
beyond the blank fields  
the only sound, an ink blot hare  
trapped in a snare,  
the kettle is still screeching.  
 
Good morning! 
you shout, to bring my spider out  
making my toes turn to watch  
your hands move over tea and toast.  
 
I sit next to you  
staring at two empty places.  
"You’re quiet today" you say,
I wait and walk around the white fields  
"I thought we might have eggs for supper"  
I say it softly and see the hare run free.