Morning. Coffee. This time of year there’s a kind of grey light in the kitchen around 7am with the day struggling to begin. But you don’t turn the light on. It’s a kind of silly challenge to put these pieces together in the half-light. You put the coffee on, and the thin blue flame of the gas cooker licks around the burned looking bottom of the coffee maker. Somewhere outside there’s a bird, or the wind rustling in the oak. A couple of times, a hot air balloon has filled the sky outside. Mostly the sky is empty and you stand looking out at it, trying to make sense of the day, and waiting for that reassuring whoosh as the coffee makes it way from the bottom of the pot into the top. That sound, and then that smell of fresh coffee, is when the day really begins. There’s a poem there somewhere.