I’m peeking through the black drapes of sky like a curtain twitcher spying on the neighbours. Today wombles innocently about her business on the other side of the window of sky, while I cocoon inside my closed-in house of night.
The early dawn is softly silent. A thundering clock – silent as a tomb by day – beats the steady passage from night to day like a metronome, waiting for the conductor to tap his baton, so that today’s dawn chorus can commence.
It is indeed another day in paradise.
Soon the day will be here in force, bringing with it all the rough-and-tumble action of a busy family day. These few minutes are my meditation. My solitude. My peace. Mine.
Spilling words onto the screen empties and soothes my mind. Making the words beautiful feeds my soul. I’m sure it’s excellent practise.
It’s 5:07 and it won’t be long before the house wakes up. Golden, glowing, fuzzy-around-the-edges from recent dreamy slumber, little nymphs wander into my space and fill it with shiny auriferous light (isn’t that a wonderful word?). In their half-waking state, each nymph is a mystical conduit connecting my grounded reality to the magical land of sleep and dreams and truth.
In time with the sun’s dissipation of the mist swirling outside my window, day wipes away the external vestiges of their magic and renders them mortal.
But I know what lies within.
I see their mystery and enchanting truth.