Alba, morning song…

Alba, that is to say, morning song,
goddamned early, same old world,
though each new day presents it differently.
Blinded by the light, headache brutal,
sweat dried in, awake in the dawn.
Where have I landed and who are you,
here in the pale grey wrinkled covers?
On steady legs, across the enormous
floor, a room as broad as a ballroom
by your lights, I realise, seeing you there,
a fine figure in my toad’s-eye view,
on small round legs, your fair hair
like cotton, or a lamb in early spring
the snow has covered in a thin layer;
four-ish, with a gaze as blue as the hero’s
in the Nibelungenlied or the Song of Roland,
...