Yesterday I stumbled over this poem (enlarged text below!) about the tyranny of mornings. In the winter darkness that’s descending as we head to the shortest day, much of it feels relatable as I write at 7am! But some aspects are less familiar. Briefcase? Commute? Formal shirt and suit? Nowadays I don’t go beyond my downstairs desk when I start the working day. That’s a common experience for many of us, post-pandemic.

I can’t say I miss all the miles I used to drive, shirts I used to iron and meetings I used to go to twenty years ago, when I wrote the poem. I also don’t miss the solitude of my life in those days. It was in many ways a luxury only to have myself and my career to think about, but life does feel richer and more connected with teenagers in the house and a diverse community of friends, colleagues and clients beyond the door… and in the virtual universe that I can so easily access on my Macbook.

There’s a lot to be thankful for in the convenience of digital life. I never dreamed when I was in my twenties that I would have so many choices about how, where and when to work, nor that I would be running my own business and writing for a living… not just scrawling poems in the back of a notebook!

It’s always morning

It’s always morning, headlight-rabbit startled
In the accusing glare of beeping, buzzing, ringing
Slicing sleep. Scrabbling, pyjama-tangled, five times
Weary, gluey-lidded. Morning light dragging its
Sullen, scuffed feet to my window, light bulbs
Too bright, duvet too warm and friendly.

Out of the bunker, stumble into extractor-grating
Bath, boiling, bubbles. Wallowing, salmon-floppy,
Half-exploring morning thoughts of when? where? what?
To wear, go, say, will the motorway stop-go?
Hauling up the sheer impossibility on a rope of
Routine: cup of tea, deodorant, tights, to-do list,
Shoe-shine, shirt, slice-of-toast, toothbrush, briefcase,
Lipstick, look-at-watch. Only a moment surely since
Doing it all yesterday, gaps between one rude awakening
And the next shortening, galloping headlong, late again.

Half-conscious, hesitating, key in hand and bags balanced.
What’s forgotten? What’s to forget? Cold air and car
Doors, the whining, lurking dawn-child is sidling onto
The street, and it’s time to go again. It’s always morning.