Mornings

Mornings

My train crawls through the dreary morning light.
Past Croydon now we wend our weary way
as, bleary-eyed, the passengers all stand,
half-dreaming of the sweetness of the night
but caught now at the wrong end of the day.
It must be hard for you to understand
precisely what it is that you have done.
Let me explain just what you give to me:
your sweet, soft whispers from the darkness come
into this cage like fragments of the sun;
your kindness sets me free.