Waking up (old)

At three of the clock
I wake and glimpse through the window
I see how the world has been
drawn in pencils,
the coal-grey houses in their
pyramid hats and the paler silhouettes
behind them
where the artist has been kinder
to the light papery sky,
lit with only the promise of sunrise
and the beckoning of day.
I think about how it works.
Why it works that way.
This whole beautiful shaded grey world,
how is it possible?


Before four of the clock
I have completed this poem.
Sentences words phrases
twisted and tumbled from my thoughts
onto the paper
powerful pen strokes of colourful
grey,
like a drawing
because my mind works this way.
Why does it work like that?
Why?
And why should it matter
when we can have such poignant
clear-cut
moments of time?