The sun rises. Fire petals light the concrete tangle of bowed buildings pretty in pink. Blaze blooming back up to the sky.
It is hard to sleep when God is at your window and I wake, weary, 5 am reluctant, but awed to come back, to be born back to such a day. I tell myself sleep might just return to me, hide under sheets, but really I know it won’t.
Dreams-eyes rinse off in the bucket and then I’m up-risen, scarf wrapped and out into the dawning.
Cows graze nonchalantly on roundabouts, disregarding barbed wire. The sheep look a little lost. The chickens count claw, scrabbling for secrets, treasures turned up donkey muck. Nervous cats stand sentry, aloof on their upper ground. But I have the streets. This is my line between here and there.
