Rising Early

The cold is solid,

hard against thighs,

steel to toe.

In the mirror of the gas fire

my face distorts,

thin, too long.

We giggle,

push to hog the heat,

burning knees

freeze at the sides.

We struggle into steaming clothes,

nudge and pinch.

As the sky lightens

through the kitchen window

mist trails up the track,

sun struggles over banks

pooled with frost-burnt clouds.

We pull on icy socks,

itchy vests,

their labels brittle.

Red-cheeked, slump-eyed,

we bite and snap hot porridge,

drip down scalding toast,

pull on stiff gloves and coats.

Then, spilling out our misty breaths,

we rattle booted down the path.

© Sue Hardy-Dawson from Where Zebras Go (Otter-Barry Books)