Rise

Spooked awake by a dream at 3am 

I thought it was proper morning, 

get-up-time morning, 

the glow roaming in through my skylight windows

and fooling me. 

I stood on my sofa to peer out of the roof,

still sleep-groggy and staggery-limbed, 

but it was the perfect half-moon, 

blaring white into my room and making me think

time had run faster than I thought. 

With dry eyes 

I finished a book I’ve loved reading, 

just in time for me to look out at the sun coming up,

before attempting to claw back sleep.

There was another morning like this, where

the promise of a peach sunrise

bled into my room,

and I thought: fuck it,

I’m up now.

I hauled on my clothes, made a coffee,

and walked bleary down the empty Broadway,

the cut of freshness of the air

making me wonder if I was really and truly mad.

But other women had done the same,

knowing it was a 5am high tide,

and silently in ones or twos or threes

we slipped into the sea as the sun rose gold 

over the massive seafront houses.

There’s something in those early morning moments 

that feels like a secret. 

Whether you see it on your own or with someone,

you’re being let in on something.

And it never gets old.

And you tell people: I saw the sunrise this morning,

and they say oh lovely,

and you show them photos that just

don’t do it justice at all.