ALWAYS FELT.

A WOMAN AND HER EARLY RISING FROM BED.

You always felt
Those mornings
Belonged to the
Brave. Like rising

From the grave,
Grandmother said.
Especially if you
Looked back to see

Patrick still sleeping
There in his deep
Hibernation, while
You had to venture

Out into the cold
Air, which bit at
Your extremities
Like an invisible

Crab. The old
Philosophy of
Early to bed early
To rise never washed

Much with you;
It seemed old hat,
Something handed
Down to you like

Second hand clothes
From a bygone age
When such things
Mattered or seemed

Comfortable. You
Always dreaded that
First foot on the mat,
That feel of coldness,

That wake up touch,
That intrusion by reality
Into your waking from
Sleep. You could hear

Patrick snore, see him
Snuggle down beneath
The duvet more, his hair
Just in sight, unkempt,

Greying here and there.
Sunshine waited somewhere.  
Promised as such. Not here
Yet. Just the big cold hug of

Iciness and a wet kiss from
The dog, not Patrick, that
Sleeping, hibernating hog.