To wake to the rustle of the rain amongst the trees
as if to emerge from sleep’s empty changing room
and wait inside a tunnel, stirred by far-off applause,
before walking through, out to the clear grey light
of the still nascent day, raindrops on your window.
To face that stillness, the early morning gift-hours,
where the first duty-bound vehicle has yet to roar,
nor the sun, nor other birds acting in compulsion,
only weather, the sounds inside your chamber
reduced to hear their call but deflect their echo.
To receive that murmured message in your chest
with the half-felt force of a barbiturate-tip arrow,
and unravel its longings for the day stretched out
ahead of you, writing back to them with action,
forgiving the words which were only your demo.
Chris Ogden is a writer residing in Manchester, where he was born. He returned to the city after graduating from UEA's Creative Writing MA in 2013 and currently moonlights as a music reviewer for The Skinny. His favourite activities include frequenting the city's cafés and music venues, going to absurd lengths to watch obscure football matches, and throwing his hat into the daisy ring of green politics. His Twitter handle is @TheThumbCompass.