The morning peeks through,

timid thing, hanging back mute

in the stillness. Birds sit nuzzling yet, stunned


by the cold. A great brush has iced

everything. I sit astride my bike blue thighed

waiting in the lung of this day

for a breath. This is how


ends come – not seen until they arrive,

hard to believe in the silence

like news of a train derailed somewhere

out of sight. This


still-born day stares indifferent,

a whore in her civvies

says, ‘What of you?’






4 thoughts on “Ends

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