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Early Morning in December

While walking on a hill near the River Wye at Chepstow

It’s cold and the grass is hard with frost,

As the tired moon,

Still beautiful after a long time out,

Removes her make-up

And thinks back on her conquests of the night.

The pale old sun, not well at all,

Pushes back the blankets

And reluctantly comes out.

With a sigh,

He forces himself to go through the motions. 

The crows caw loudly in the tall oaks

To tell the world that they too are starting

On the business of the day.

The cows begin to browse on grass

They could not see just half an hour before.

The puddles hard with ice like panes of glass,

Lie here and there in the muddy field

That now can drink the rain no more.

The traffic sounds a distant throb

As the headlights climb the veins

To and from the heart of the little town,

Where the streetlamps light the early risers

On their cold way out to work.

The old people in the home,

At home no longer,

Begin to think about the day

That they will spend inside.

The school stirs as the bells wake the young sleepers

To their routine, governed by bells.

Shops unlock and offices are lit

As computers sort themselves out for the tasks ahead,

And the working day shakes itself

And gets into the right frame of mind.

The moon, still bright,

Takes one last look,

Draws the clouds across her window,

And then lies down to sleep the short day through.