Since everyone is writing aubades…
Waking to heavy cloud
This morning after the night that followed lovers’ day
is dull and grey, a portent, waiting for the light
to fall upon your rumpled hair and rumpled face.
The saving grace of night is in its dark, when flaw
is hid, and we pretend it beauty, clever, smart,
but no heart can bear the pain at soft night’s end,
when harsh day sends its arrows, so, furtively, we part.
The Four Swans 
The night’s magic does not always remain when the sun rises. (K)
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