The Morning Girl

Let me tell you. Let me tell you about the morn­ing girl. The morn­ing girl is a per­son who has been in my head for about a year now. She has been sit­ting there quietly, in the dark recesses of my brain, drink­ing a cup of tea and weav­ing birds into the mist, or weav­ing mist into birds, or some­thing – and not com­ing out. Every so often, I sit down to write some poetry, write a few lines about the blas­ted morn­ing girl, and sink back into a quag­mire of writers block so subtle it irrit­ates the fin­ger­nails off me. This beau­ti­ful girl, about whom I have so many things to say, is either bey­ond me or simply gig­gling into her tea, enjoy­ing my des­pair. Heart­less lassie.
So tonight I decided to be done with the morn­ing girl once and for all, and finally man­aged to write a poem about her I am even slightly happy with. How­ever, this poem is not fin­ished. That means that I am going to wake up tomor­row morn­ing, look at it, and say ‘why did I upload this garbage where not only I can read it again, but so too can every­body on the Inter­net?’ Trust me. Of course, this means that I will have to try and write some­thing more about the morn­ing girl, a pro­spect I am look­ing for­ward to in much the same way that Ber­told, the ter­min­ally unskilled hunter, looked for­ward to the yearly fox­hunt – he’d cer­tainly go hunt­ing and see some foxes, but would he man­age to shoot any of them? No. Sod­ding morn­ing girl.


I found the morn­ing girl
Perched on my garden wall
Her thin body wrapped
In fog and feath­ers.
You’re shiv­er­ing,
I said,
Have you been here long?
Since the begin­ning,
She said,
Since the time
the Earth first turned
in a young dark sky
when there were less stars
and nobody but me,
since then.
We were silent then
And watched the old light
Turn the trees
To stories.

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