I sip the morning one mouthful at a time.
The dawn is sweetest when the house
Is still, no kettle shrill
And the baby slumbers, breathing in rhyme.

I rub the sleep from the day before from my eyes.
Yesterday still hangs over me like a shadow of a dream.
The pall still pulls at my mind it seems.
You could say it’s too much drink, and I’d say that’s obscene.

Sleep’s a funny thing,
Little understood
And if only I could
Store up the hours lost in in sleeping

Oh the castle I’d build for me and my bride.
But no my dreams
Are what they are,
And I’m content to live on this side.

Posted in Perspective, Poetry