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.
