Down Time

There are no clocks in my mother's house,

We wake to our own rhythms.

Sometimes at four am, not moving,

But listening to the quiet breathing of the walls,

The creak of beams and gentle 'click, whoosh' as the heating engages.

We rise with the sun, early.

At breakfast we spread butter like cheese on hot crumpets,

And make no plans beyond the brewing of tea,

Oblivious to the passing of minutes.