Waking

I don't ask if you see

the trees in the mist at this early hour

ivy climbing to the crows

nested in leafy branches.

I don't ask you to raise a song like the blackbirds

rehearsing forgotten tunes.

No need to acknowledge

the silky light of bulrushes,

how they shift and dance

like dust settling,

like the brown of a bird's wing

deep under the barrel of its body.

All I ask is that

you stand here with me

at the open window

and watch the morning

breathing slowly in and out.

Amanda Hodgkinson