Dawn coming late

Dawn comes late

to the marl lake,

shielded by the weight

of chalk bastions

from early sorties.

Dawn comes late;

it doesn’t break here

but tumbles in its rising

like a morning psalm,

chanted by fieldfares.

Yawning awake,

the lake shines its face

to the tardy sun,

its surface rhythming

in the waking breeze.

Though I am alone

in witness

this is not loneliness

but soulitude.