The time for the dragging of heels is over. 

The sun crests the horizon line.  

Now is the time to rise.  

Now is the time to fling open the curtains and see.  

 

The time for hiding is through.  

The dawn chorus is loud and sweet.  

Now is the time to cast off the bed sheets.  

Now is the time to don the clothes.  

 

Every ending is also a beginning. True.  

But every beginning is also an ending.  

Death is rebirth. Expiry is compost.  

To live long is to die slowly.  

 

In the morning, the station is full.  

Busy and bustling, it smells of smoke and coffee.  

Noise all around. Voices call out times and directions.  

A long whistle blows, piercing.  

 

Soft seats, slamming doors, luggage thunking.  

Chugging out of the station and over the bridge.  

Trying to get to the other side. 

(There is always another side.) 

 

To die slowly is to live long.  

Feeling endlessly with no end in sight.  

Every day could be a gift.  

Every sunrise is a reward.  

 

In the afternoon the train arrives.  

It is time to disembark.  

And embark. Shuffling feet down the road.  

Sunlight warms rosy cheeks.  

 

Lifted boots stomping through city streets.  

Frenzied folks flow in all different directions.  

Confusion and chaos are delicious and divine.  

Walking onward with a head full of music.  

 

A slow death is a privilege seldom won.  

The minutes crawl on with pride and duty.  

A long life is a trophy few win.  

A stiff race with a tender resolution.  

 

In the evening, the destination is reached.  

Wiping mud-stained boots off on the mat.  

Leaving them at the door.  

The house is warm and the food is good.  

 

Conversation flows like wine.  

How and where and when and why?  

With who? And for how long?  

It smells of smoke and coffee, bittersweet.  

 

The game played by all is cruel. 

And unfair and wrong and brutal. 

And kind and tender.  

And soft and warm.  

 

As night falls, the journey begins anew.  

Rising from the table, walking to the door.  

Don the coat and don the boots.  

Now it is time to hurry down the road.  

 

A long whistle blows, piercing.  

Chugging out of the station and over the bridge. 

(There is always another side.) 

There is always another journey.  

 

Every ending is also a beginning, true. 

But every beginning is also an ending. 

Stick around in the old doorway for just another minute.  

To live long is to die slowly.