5.03


First
 scribble 
of 
birdsong


scrabbles 
the 
edges
 of 
sleep


it’s 
cold
 I 
hunch 
the 
sheet


higher 
over 
my 
shoulder


you
 sleep 
silent


and
 warm 
beside 
me





5.17


A 
double
 thump 
on 
our 
drive


the 
newspapers



cylinders 
of 
babble 
and 
shout


whisper
 nudge 
and 
lament


huddle
 under 
their 
flimsy 
covers


until
 that 
first 
coffee





5.29


Wide
 awake 
now


the
 good
 news 
the 
all
 clear


is
 like 
your 
warmth
 beside 
me


I
 want 
to 
shout 
it 
to 
the 
heavens


but
 who 
wants 
to 
see 
a 
silver 
haired 
man


barefoot
 and 
in 
a 
dressing 
gown


skipping
 down 
a 
still 
dark
 street


hollering 
his 
hallelujahs?
–


besides
 it’s 
raining





5.36


chip 
chip


chip
 chip 
a 
thin


chirp 
in 
our 
garden


chisels 
the 
darkness


a 
chink 
of
 first 
light 
creeps 
in


some 
insistent 
bird 
poking 
and 
scraping



shut
 up 
you 
idiot 
chiseller


you’ll 
wake 
the 
wattlebird





5.44


Oh 
no! 
here 
it 
comes



its
 first 
tentative 
notes


harmonious
 as 
a 
broken


crank shaft


now 
it 
goes
 hammer 
and
 tongs


whatever 
it 
might 
be
 expressing


splattered 
over 
the 
sunrise


the
 only 
way 
to
 stop 
it


to 
chop 
its 
tree 
down





6.03


I 
can 
sleep 
another 
hour


then
 I’ll 
hear 
you



stir 
turn 
and 
stare 
at 
the 
clock


the 
birds 
have 
gone 
silent


nudged 
out
 by 
a 
ground
 base


of
 traffic 
and 
sunlight
‐


time
 to 
make 
our 
own 
music