It is too early
too early you see
to be up on a Saturday morning
street lights still glowing
on the dark lane outside
below my bedroom window

but the hoards of mischief-makers
in the night life of the mind
are too disturbing
i must be up and going

down the steps
and to the blackness of the street
the air sweet with northerly breezes
and the fragrant promise - could it be true -
of rain. Count the blocks

to the suburban coffee shop
the 'OPEN' sign just lit
I sit
in solitary warmth
behind the pane glass window
and lift the flowered cup
to the clouded dawn