Clock

the house is waking,

the final weeks of warmth

surrender to the chilly

early mornings of autumn,

the heating yawns noisily

reluctantly beginning to stretch

checking arteries are clear

before stirring,

six-fifteen, still dark

I notionally trace each room’s 

begrudged awakening

each curse and languorous creak

with ears keening 

I murmur the journey

bedroom, bathroom, kitchen

as the autumn life-force courses

like blood throughout each room,

outside as summer colours turn

sap retreats, like a beaten warrior

seeking sleep

inside a new season begins, a new life

the house is breathing again

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21