Every morning, before the tentative warmth of dawn melts the waxy sleep in my eyes, before reality sails in on the contrails of a fuming orb, I grab the last dark fibres of the shredded night and fashion them into brushes. Sometimes a soft rounded brush to sweep across time’s waking face, sculpting its cheek bones, filling its dimples with a rose tinted blush, colouring its ghostly pallor with the red hue of life, drawing its cold, snake skinned lips into a welcoming smile; or hard bristles to briskly sweep away fragments of a stubborn dream that dares in vain to breach the final wall of night, or maybe the sable haired brush from my mother’s table to paint over the wrinkles, the spots, the gashes, the tears, the blood as they step one by one into the watery light.
Every morning I carry a masterpiece, restored and refined, a perfect copy of the one from yesterday, and place it carefully into the mirror of the waiting day.
kohl smudged sky
a frayed blanket still drawn over
the slumbering sun