Thinking of a dream-drawn place
I cup cold water to my face;
then dry myself and dress and eat
and leave. Above the quiet street

half a moon hangs roughly torn
amid a peach and blue-grey dawn
and bird song spreads its endless charm
but cannot mask a car alarm.

A solitary fox appears; a cat
with cupped and twitching ears;
as if, all animals alike, made
alerted by a hormone spike,

we’d crept out from a fetid lair
to breathe a crisper, sweeter air;
to glean the dying quietude and
watch the cowled night conclude

while yellow lights, like boiled sweets,
switch off in step on stirring streets
from where all peace retreats until
again, the day grows fresh and still.