These mornings, again, I awake in darkness;
hot-shower against the cold
to stir my blood; dress, moving slowly;
descend the stairs.
The kitchen window still a wall of black,
the world impenetrable beyond
as I stand stirring porridge that
will warm my bones.
At ten-to-eight, heading to chapel,
I move through still-first-light:
delicate
shimmering
recently emerged from night
as a butterfly from the chrysalis,
its folded wings as yet to dry,
before they can spread wide
against the sun, filling the sky
with clear autumnal blue.
This light, so vulnerable
I half-suspect that it will leave
its pigment trace upon my clothes
as I brush past...
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