The five a.m. air feels bleak as a fridge
with an open door and a broken light.
I go tripping off the tongues of grass
in flip flops and tartan pyjamas
holding before me an ill tempered coot
like a tarred and feathered sextant.
Underground the sun is still dressing,
slapping on shine as the day squeaks to life.
The short-lived songbirds are going haywire
bursting for shock at another morning.
Near the pond I release the cat’s trophy
and it scuttles off clucking through the weeds:
a big shoed barrister in gown and wig,
rushing back for a judge’s decision.
At home I strip off and climb into bed
seeking your body, the glow of your warmth.
You wriggle away and complain of the cold –
but I’m glad of the coot, the cat, and the dawn.
Taken from Marc’s recent collection Hide Songs (Green Bottle Press 2018). Purchase a copy here.