Coffee, Croissants and Quiet Mornings

I note it now, the street itself
has chosen a colour,
and chosen it boldly.

See how the sky, usually so reserved,
has let itself be caught
in an argument with fire:
orange flaring behind the roofs,
blue retreating but not defeated,
the two shaking hands
in long white scratches of cloud,
as if yesterday crossed out its own certainty.

The house on the corner,
white, upright, faintly weary,
stands like an English sentence
that refuses embellishment.

It says only what it must.
Windows squared, door set firm,
it believes in endurance
more than admiration.

The road curves away, undecided,
still damp with last night’s thinking.
No crowd presses it into usefulness yet.
Lamp posts keep their counsel.
A sign waits to be read
by someone who will matter later.

Inside my cup, coffee.
Dark, earnest, quietly persuasive,
matching the hour exactly.
It does not shout like that sky;
it reasons,
warming the hands that hold it
into agreement.

Somewhere not yet opened,
croissants cool beneath paper,
gold folded into patience,
their purpose postpond,
like the day itself.

And here I stand,
between house and horizon,
between what England has been
and what this morning
is briefly willing to promise,
content to witness,
to make no speech grander
than this simple fact:

The light arrived.
It found me ready.