In the Little Hours

By Kyra Lambert

In the little hours

A crow makes himself known,

The moon slides into the west,

And we writhe in crisp linens

Rough on elbows and heels

I pull myself awake

And rub the hours of rest from my eyes

The grey morning

Colours my apartment,

The rooftops are veiled in fog,

And the chimneys are obscured by a familiar mist

I’m here once more,

Standing at the edge,

At the crest of autumn,

Where the earth reclines

Into the death of the sun