When the war between sleep and wake is over,
the victor pushes me from the field of poppies into peaceful time.
I pad stealth-like towards the day, ambushing the dawn.
Tea, toast and procrastination are imbibed. Quiet tasks are planned and logged.
My spy in the sky, the blackbird, calls his bugle from the crabapple tree, swaying with the weight of his news.
The washing, piled high in the laundry, is planning a coup d’état.
The dogs are underfoot, my starving villagers.
The troops are soon to rise, needing grub and direction.
Ravens drawl loudly from my roof top, but I don’t speak their language.
Rain is on it’s way, the spy interprets before he flies away.
I look up to the sky.
No matter how battle weary I am, I always welcome the rain.
Everything looks better when it’s washed.