This autumn, I will take my mornings slow

This autumn, I will take my mornings slow,
wake up early, eat a good breakfast, maybe
even write, if I’m lucky. At least, I will
tell myself that’s what I’ll do, while sleep

walks through my head, or rather, I walk
through sleep as through a land, far away
and gauzy. Shrouded in mist, as they say,
themselves shrouded, the soothsayers, the scops,

the storytellers who never stop talking.
As I walk they seem to recede somewhere
behind me, but I know they’re never far.
I ignore them, but like the ticking of a clock

they continue, through the night and into
the mornings, which I’ll keep trying to take slow.