6:27am— a poem

I stood on the bridge stretching its way into the open mouth of morning

and watched the city rouse itself from last night’s dream

the soft rumble underfoot yawning itself into a louder growl

the birds finding their voice

red lights on cars still blinking and bright

the sky still the colour of night

you almost never realise how loud it all is

until you stand there just in time to hear it pull back the rough blanket of dawn

still folded three times over

I could almost feel the sun waiting at the edge of the sky’s brimming plate

about to spill itself out and pool china and gold—

and the streets began to creak under the weight of all its inhabitants

roaming it lonely and hopeful and here