6 am

Six o’clock is muted;
A few birds mutter tentatively
As if morning is disputed,
Unsure of their internal clocks
Due to the absent
Crowing of the neighbour’s cock.
The sky is opaque with autumn mist
The colour of an old vest.
Hanging from the pinch of plastic pegs,
Limp washing drips.
Silence sizzles.
And then, the white noise
Of the cloud-muffled garden
Is broken
By the grumbling
Of a wood pigeon
Chimney hugging on the roof
And, within half an hour,
A blackbird sings
Its fluty greeting
To a sky almost bright
With a more confident light,
Banishing the remaining
Shadows of last night.

Kim M. Russell, 2016

I think I might have posted an earlier version of this poem a few months ago. Since then I sent this version to a competition but it was sadly unsuccessful.