Howard Firkin
Mon
   The morning is a shattered cup. I chance
   bare footfalls in a slow and watchful dance.
Tues
   The birdsong’s absence registers before
   I wake. I wake to rain and nothing more.
Wed
   Awareness takes its first, slow sips of sight
   in fine bone china cups of milky light.
Thurs
   The city breathes its low, subsonic roar.
   Long waveforms break along a distant shore.
Fri
   Before alarm, my thoughts are sung by birds,
   and then my brain is battered into words.
Sat
   Moon sliver, grey-blue clouds, a lemon smear
   of watercolour sky. Welcome to here.
Sun
   A wave receding on the sand leaves shown
   the moment: fragment shells and weed and stone.