
In no time, I'd been given a choice of hours. I'm a morning person so I opted for 6am, reckoning also (and correctly) that I'd still have time afterwards to chivvy my teenage sons from their beds so they didn't miss the school bus.
I'd set the alarm, but didn't need it. Midsummer morning was damp, cool and grey in Dumfries and Galloway. I picked up pencil and notebook (and coat).
Birdsong. The quiet pond. Hills.
I wandered into the wood, and then on impulse climbed into the copper beech tree. Perched, and scribbling on slightly dampening paper, I spent a slow hour that was filled with happenings. And I thought of the poet who'd just done 5am. And the poet who would take over from me at 7am.

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