Equinox – a poem by Lisa Bristow

Equinox

Gazing through the window at the hint of dawn,
so many months since I've seen this sacred hour.
The house quiet, the bird under his blanket,
an occasional chirrup and settling of feathers.
The dog asleep on the sofa next door, her chin
curled to meet the stretch of her paws.
The creak of my husband shifting in bed, 
my space cooling beneath the duvet.
The birdfeeder is prepped for breakfast, 
its gentle sway an invitation to nesting blue tits, 
our solitary robin and the ever-present pigeons
who wait yawning to be fed like cuckoos.
Down by the pond a heron stares past 
its own reflection at the stirrings of morning.
I should open the door, run out there
with flailing arms to save the drowsy frogs
but it seems wrong to intervene, 
to interrupt this quiet morning prayer,
so I stay put, my hand on an empty cup,
shoulders stiff with last night's vivid dreams,
waiting for the rumble and click of the kettle
to usher in the safety of the risen sun.

 

Lisa Bristow’s poetry has been published in the Thomas Merton Journal, We are Not Shadows by Folkways Press, What the Eye Sees by Arachne Press, Kosmeo Mag and Faith, Hope and Fiction. She lives on the edge of the Peak District in England with her husband and rescue dog.