Dawn Skin

Dawn skin
 
Don't wake up, don't wake up but I couldn't sleep -
Instead rose early, head full of fluff,  
painted as a blush of sky, pure and soft and new,  
got up, stretched, scrambled,  
shoes and trousers and jumper and vest,
not in that order,  
apple and water and rise times and door key,
four for four, not in that order,
practically ran, as only someone who pulled their knee
and fears it but is excited could, just a skip and a hop from fields  
and their plum mouth, their hazy ochre and pink,
a flash of amber and two giddied cubs dash down main street,
the main street that is actually just named The Street,  
look it up, or don't, it not relevant and it's four am. I'm not here to judge.
The entirity of the car path is kissed by hazel hedges, ponds, soft bends and upper middle class pastel walls,
the length littered with sloe, ramswort and hides.
The clouds are undecided, I read thunder,
I don't hear it though, and I'm all for a sound display.
So I walk, until the rotten stile,  
bagged bales, dazzled crows,
until Suffolk feels plainly abandoned  
in a way I've always loved it,
like me, like the crickets, like no one could touch us
for a moment or two,
and no one else cares to wake with the day,
or witness her rest. They're burnt out or busy,  
or their beds are warm. It's all change since last week,  
shorn and tidy and crisp one side,
green with beet on the other and I watch,
4.29, 5.05, 5.33,
until papaver hues no longer touch sky,
until you and I are no longer alone.
 
11/14