Fraser’s bike

 This is Fraser’s time

This is Fraser’s time when little birds

In Epping Forest begin to sing

As dawn creeps over Essex Hills

Over huts and castles equally. 

Meanwhile in France in a monastery

Matins have been sung prayerfully 

The monks now scurry, heads bowed 

To silent  breakfast in the refectory. 

The rain has cleared and Fraser’s beard

Cuts the morning air on his trusty bike

As he has done for as long as anyone

In this home county can remember. 

Safely returned and the kettle’s on

While the crossword yields its secrets 

A look at markets before they open 

A little punt spices up the morning. 

Like the monks he rises early 

Surprising starlings in their nests 

Despite his years, he’s up and at it

While the world grabs another minute. 

Many will rise hours later 

But Fraser now has read the paper

Walked the dogs, cut the grass

Done the shopping, tasks are over.  

Morning has broken over the forest 

The rain has stopped, the mist is rising

From woodland floor and is ascending

Like sweet incense in the oratory.