I wake up with the house

at 5am, or thereabouts,

it exhales a good morning

from the back bedroom

with a yawning crack,

ten minutes later a reply

eases from an under stairs

cupboard, a languorous

haunted gentle creak,

at this cold time of year

the heating crackles into

a noisy cough at 6am,

my poetry brain tries to

rise to this early challenge

as words tumble out from

the darkness, taunting me

to let them fly uncaptured,

I scribble hurriedly, illegibly,

hoping my hasty glyphs are

at least decipherable

come breakfast time,

who knows?

© Graham R Sherwood 03/25