Autumn mornings


Waking up at 5.30 is becoming harder and harder each day; a sort of combined effect of the gradual appearance of winter under the cover of each night and the sun taking a little longer to appear each morning. And yet, there is nothing better than pulling on a fifteen year old dressing gown, going upstairs quietly and walking about the sleeping house feeding birds and fish. The kettle is on, the lights of cars on South Road in the distance glitter faintly and only the house senses that I am awake. As I make coffee, I always miss Toby who was a light sleeper and never one to go into bedrooms at night. He would have been awake by now. Zac on the other hand is curled up at the foot of Riju’s bed fast asleep. I don’t imagine he senses my need to have company with my coffee. He must hear me open the biscuit tin with scenes from Wind In The Willows on it, but the door is closed and the bed warm. I make coffee, watch the fighter fish in their bowls and think of rain arrowing its way down windows of long distance trains while wondering why love takes such a long time to lose its sharp edges.

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