Morning Hour

 Never having been a morning person

It took me many years to learn to truly experience 

Mornings with all of my senses.

That morning hour

When all is still,

Awoken from my slumber 

By the dogs, by loud footsteps outside...

Or sometimes by my eagerness 

To spill my overflowing thoughts on paper.

When my heart can't contain them all.

I wrap the blanket over me one last time 

Feel its warm softness 

And the cool pillow under my head

That perfect balance almost makes me smile in my sleep.

Stretching that bit of rest

To maybe last a moment longer

Before my day begins.

Can a comfort like that ever be described...

Or only felt?

Staggering - sleepily, 

Stubborn tired eyes 

That have settled cozily into rest mode,

Refusing to fully open, 

Hair a wild mess, 

I stumble around the house...

To find my children.

There's nothing that can fill your soul

Quite like looking at your sleeping child.

What is it about that face, in its stillness 

And blissful state of rest

That changes everything?

It's a moment that makes my morning. 

Darkness fades into light 

As I wait on the stone bench outside

For the whistle of the kettle.

The only sound I hear is the waves on the sea.

That's going to change in a minute 

When the waves are joined in a delicate duet

By the multitude of birds in the trees outside.

The sound will be but a memory one day

Just like the birds from 

my childhood mornings.

Who knows how many more mornings they have,

Before a concrete eyesore 

Steals their homes from under them?

Making my way to my coffee cup,

Unconditional friend

Makes sense of the world for me

That friend who shakes the productivity out of me,

Like any good friend.

Pure comfort in a cup...

Warming my heart when I need some love.

The smell always takes me back

To midnight shenanigans at railway stations...

To India Coffee House...

To long drives on empty roads 

with stops of comfort 

sipped from steel tumblers, too hot to hold,

at matchbox roadside stalls...

To childhood mornings, 

When our favourite 'weekday' mugs,

Stood on our heavily laden messy dining table

And those rushed breakfasts with my sisters before school.

If self-love had an aroma,

I think it would have to be 

The aroma of

A cup of coffee.