The first together is the morning itself
the marrying wish of dew
the first dance of the grass
renewed like a child’s clock
the grass sings to the window—
“come down to the sky fields,
come down and re-watch the eclipse
come down, Penelope.”
The early light unaware of the low hum
that entwines the mood of the air,
in high memory cries.
And we remember the ghosts better in the morning
the rising light that is always a grace
on the back of the things you love
scattered through the house like Lego.
The bed remains ancient in its ritual of worship
a personal attack against strangers
made up of all its own Trojan wars
hung in literature, undebated.
It is easy to believe that it is a privilege to grow old
in the morning and that age is young
and all that is above will remain immortal
regardless of loneliness.
Commissioned for National Poetry Library's Open Day 2018 on the theme of 'Odysseys'. Part of London Literature Festival.