This morning

This morning

The twilight border between sleep and waking was a London one this morning: splashed patches of blue and purple, narrow streets, the golden lavish city of greenish and crispy chill. Sometimes in this semi-consciousness I felt like sojourning again in London, or feeling again the age-soft stones in Kyoto, or wrapping myself up in crisp wintry days in Swiss. Sometimes, also, under the grapevines in my grandpa's backyard. But London it was this morning in the yearless region of dreams. The feeling, submerged by matinal necessities, lingered even after I had dressed and locked the door behind me.