Waking

The first squealing yawn
is the metal on metal
of the London train
waking the Eastern arches.

The first sticky blink
is the pneumatic clatter
of the 89’s double doors
disembarking in the Shudehill smog.

Did you once fail
to bring the light
out from its temporary storage?
Or leave the dawn
shuttered in the night’s dark premises?

Before the first footprint
on the dew-damp street you Are.
Every day
and
always.

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