Pukeko Dawn

The warm light night. White jasmine in a heavy dark coat peeps in at the window with a 'hello' face, or set of faces.

'Hello!' I echo.

The moon plays its part in full.

I play Bach in full. I can't get enough. Bach fills the living room, evoking a better class of memory.

My glasses slide down my nose.

Bach concludes by sitting down upon a chair just prior to leaping up off it again to dance. I'm with Bach.

It is dangerous to drink after midnight. Risqué, the French might say. One does it anyway.

My hand shadows my page, insect like.

White wine hardly counts.

The dishwasher mashes time.

M's heron stands erect,  its stretched, sanded tanded skin, glowing golden on the white windowsill, watching the view.

The moon glows too, almost confusing the daisies, the toughest plant to confuse.

My glass is thirsty. I shouldn't drink. It's 1am.

The publishers like my head shot. It's almost current.

I like to eat marshmallow in the dark. The softness is more surprising. I pick crumbs off my bust and arm rest.

Faded pink daisies reach for the moon. They do not sleep. I know how they feel. The moon has me up too, it dusts the garden with a ghostly grey.

If I didn't have to write, I'd turn out all the lights.

The dishwasher 'bewoo's, 'bewoo's it's owl-like finish. Normally only the night hears, I wonder if it bewoos all the same.

You know it's really night when the machines pack it in.

The plants are quite dull in the heavy grey dawn. Only the street lamp, on its ludicrously long neck, glows bright yellow, its bulbous head, a hard bulging blossom.

I watch the dawn but the flowers don't watch me. They barely breathe.

Day begins: pinks and blues in soft baby hues.

Green begins to greeeeeeeen.

Still, it looks like cloud.

Dawn is the confirmation of colour.

Even through the thick cloud, the sun bestows colour.

Colour is more than life. Colour is hope.

But Day doesn't 'break' as some have it. 'Break' assumes pointiness. Day is smooth, feminine. Night, well, that is a different matter entirely. Night can be pointy.

Birds awaken, speaking their varied hellos.

Bach now on his third lap.

Yellow emerges.

Day is almost lighting my page now, the street lamp has been switched off.

Orange is here; the brick path looks meatier for it; follow the orange brick road...

I must release the cat from her garage cage.

One a week I chop nuts to 'beef' up my morning muesli. My breakfast then has all the five food groups: grain, dairy, fruit (tinned pears), nuts (protein), oil, the nuts are roasted.

But I will not chop nuts for the boys (they have separate cereal). They are too old for such mothering. I will, however, make them a fried egg and ham salad bun for lunch, as I was too sick to make one yesterday, the usual fried egg bun day.

Today is Thursday.

Day is grey.

A grey Thursday in spring, the hopeful season at least.

The cat licks my cereal bowl. She likes milk even though we feed her water, or perhaps because of that.

I am in no hurry for summer, except for it bringing the book closer.

The ceramic pukeko is last of all to cast off the heavy cloak of Night, shining yellow-eyed and friendly.

Empty the dishwasher. Leave fried eggs batties to cool. Add tomato, ham and crunchy lettuce - once egg has cooled. Gladwrap last of all, or the bun will sweat.

Feed the cat turkey and chicken.

Repeat Bach.

Set C2's breakfast table, blue bowl, pears in glass, and Weet-Bix. Pack rest of lunch: apple, muesli bar, cheese triangle, biscuit. Wrap fried egg buns. Remember mayonnaise. Place packed lunch-box on table next to breakfast bowl.

Should be teaching dance tonight. But I cancelled. Nearly three years, two of which were pretty good. Lovely email from Karen. No regrets about decision, couldn't dance tonight anyway with Tuesday night's liquid sins still lingering. Also periods. Phew! But not ideal for dance.

Make a plunger of coffee. No coffee yesterday. Too crook. Hardly ate either.

Call up chute to C2. Probably need to wake him in the flesh again later.

Didn't take the usual meds last night, wanting to watch the dawn.

C2 is late. Don't have the energy to go upstairs to wake him up.

Go anyway.

Cat1 (mother) charges past me up the stairs, wanting to be first to the top. Nearly trips me up, as usual.

C2 is still in bed at 8.43! He's supposed to be at school at 8.45. Admittedly we live only five minutes walk away from the school, but that's still bad maths - so much for breakfast.

Cat2 (daughter) joins us from C2's bedroom where she sleeps, sometimes trapped if C2 takes too long to wake up.

We end with two cats considerin' the yard.

DAY (29 October, 2015)!