Jill McKeowen #5 It's still dark

It’s still dark

It’s still dark when I push the doona back

unwrapping sleep, scattering dreams

to the cold; I drift, consoled

in my fleecy gown, pocket

my feet into slippers, feel

my way over hushed carpet,

spark the gas heater to flame,

flick the bathroom into light,

give thanks for this convenience.

In the kitchen I rock the kettle

to hear the water’s depth,

fill it from the tap, strike a match,

open fridge door (the only whining here),

find ginger to slice into boiling water;

as it steeps, I move the dishes

from drying rack to cupboards.

By the glow of the gas fire, I sip

my ginger tea, gaze 

at the rising-falling curl of the sleeping cat;

by the lamp at my desk, I write

lines reckless with adjectives for

for the dawn, the sky, the chill stars.

Elsewhere under dawn stars,

a woman wakes by the road

near a border she’s walked days

to reach from her bombed city.

All night she wrapped her body warmth

around her baby, careful

to hide from militia.

She can’t afford the knowledge of

a bed, slippers, carpet, tea, a fire;

now she must look for water. 

As a draft, this doesn't yet have a satisfactory ending, but I find it an interesting aspect of process that a poem seems to travel along, then must stop and wait a while until it knows where it wants to go.