8 am (rough version).

8 am awakens
in a blaze of cold
and realises
that no-one ever
wakes up
on it.

Morning frost covers its lips
and it lies on its back,
eyes glazed over soft.
It waits

for to rise
steamy
to meet hazy sky
and breathe deeply
chilled, clear air.

I want to go back to bed
and sleep on your shoulder.

8 am is a mute child
in soundlessness.
It wears a retarded smile
and has pure eyes.
It wants the birds,
but the birds are nowhere.

It watches the children
being dropped off at school
and its fingers are chilled
as it fumbles a wave.
It lies still,
in waiting to turn over
for its friend.

A man cycles in the cold
and has a frozen head
like the hour.
8 am inherits the chill
from earlier hours -
it's still cold enough
for shed locks to cease up.

All is seemingly dead
and transition comes slow;
thunderous in silence,
racing through the moments
with a frozen shield
and pained bones.

There are people walking through the town
at 8 am
and they are barely conscious:
the chill has got them all funny,
bleeds into them
a quiet sigh.
8 am tries to reach out

to all its children -
stripped-bare trees,
and lonely walkers;
it sees these, victims
of season. Treason would be
to console from pity.

Thinly worn smiles
and children with bright, young eyes
and tight noses
parade around -
some on foot,
some peering from car windows,
some floating on clouds of ecstasy. 

Adorned in snug coats,
with their cold feet
and frigid toes,
these little lives go about life
whilst 8 am gives an ear
to shuffling animals
in their autumn beds:
they murmur about winter solemnity,
how they wish their dwellings
were deeper
and warmer
and about how they can't wait
to dance with their grandmothers and aunts
by hearth fire.