Aubade For once it was not the tiny bird screaming from its cage inside the alarm-clock but the sun bursting its yolk through the window that woke me up. Should I get out of bed & look for the cafetiere? Where are my glasses? Could I face breakfast? Outside a city is clanking in its chains: a rubbish-truck is shunting up the street like something mammalian & a reel of seagulls are scraping the bellies of clouds. A single pane of glass is the room’s flimsy membrane; it allows all kinds of breezes. Inside we are a pair of loofahs taking a bath in yellow. Something about the light dusting his chest-hair reminds me of Pieter Claesz — or do I mean Clara Peeters? In the window clouds are unstitching themselves & the day blows open like an empty net.

Padraig Regan the poems

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