clocks dominate
the grey dawn skyline
the clamour of alarms
beats sleep’s last grains
to within an inch of life
bodies stir and meet
the blue haze of breakfast
the outside world gathers itself
from darkness and the fog
that night left
dispels
work becomes purpose
in the years after electric light
rising is another kind of dream
where bed-warm sleepers wake
to gloom in the kitchen
with a different chill
and the steam of kettles
time is equal to money
profit and loss haste or hurry
pressed into work-wear
or office drab
places-to-go
people-to-see
the movement of the masses
continents drifting tides rising
a human flood spilling over
its murmuration
surging into daylight
a swarm such as birds
in a choreography of flight
insects in hives
colonies moving
like water molecules
dancing
in the tuneless vessels
of this chaotic world
© BH, 2020
Monday, a day with a feeling named after it, the start of the work-a-day week. The sequence begins, repeats. No-one cares at this stage about the origins. If the moon has anything to do with it, it will be the moon-face millions wandering in to their drudge. Interminably.
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