EARLY MORNING AT THE MERCY

This six a.m. moment

in the cool-blue cool

of early morning

is not eternal.

It will pass

like the faint bat squeak

of an early bird call.

It is silent again

even as the dark

fades

and the white eyes of buildings

emerge

slowly gleaming

as they drop their grey veils.

But now the birds

are getting serious.

More and brassier

calls

as my first cup of tea

chills.

And I turn back

to Gwen’s poetry

wondering

how on earth she could write

so eloquently in hospital.

Her spirit

must have been

as raucously persistent

as the dawn crowing chorus

of her vicious adored

golden roosters.

Or she was cheating –

and the Bone Scan poems

were written

when she was well

and safely remembering

her Plague Year

as she put on the kettle

and set out her shining

pens.