First Light

So many barriers to the dawn...

A transparent window turned
Back upon itself, reflecting
No hint of colour, only edges
Angles and billowing shapes

She pulls back the curtains, hard...

Outside, the black, black trees
Skulking behind the imperfect
Mists of early winter, determined
To conceal their names from her

What else, what else do they hide?

Far away, a vagabond has lit a fire
He is invisible, but she sees him
Clearly, crouching in the darkest hour
By the orange gash of his mimic dawn

At last some colour, something...

Breaking out of the ordinary
Seems simple enough, and yet
Ask any restless woman at five
In the morning and she will tell you

Everything, but everything, is a barrier...

Fear, mist, the secretive trees, even
The man who dominates her vision
Playing games with his false dawn's fire  
Although she knows he is pure illusion

And the window - why is it never a door?