December Morning – Fleur Adcock
I raise the blind and sit by the window
dry-mouthed, waiting for light.
One needs a modest goal
something safely attainable.
An hour before sunrise
(due at seven fifty-three)
I go out into the cold new morning
for a proper view of that performance;
walk greedily towards the heath
gulping the blanched air
and come in good time to Kenwood.
They have just opened the gates.
There is a kind of world here, too:
on the grass slopes above the lake
in the white early Sunday
I see with something like affection
people I do not know
walking their unlovable dogs.
O'Sullivan, V. (Ed.). (1979). An anthology of twentieth century New Zealand poetry. Wellington: Oxford University Press.