his land, his stream and his garden

action stations from the sons alarm across the room, he has forgotten to turn it off, now it is six forty five in the morning, it is dark, frost outside the window in the light from the window. A cold morning.

the son remains in bed.

Take a shower, wash the hair, brush the teeth.

Find all the clothes for the day, the day in Dublin. get ready.

Dawn is brightening the windows now, the country outside is covered in a white dusting of frost. 

The son asks for his Latin to be heard, his vocabulary to be checked. He gets no further than fifty per cent, there is so much to learn.

And then dressed, the kitchen, a cup of instant, a clear blue dawn sky outside, a blue sky over a frosted landscape.

The mind will not work, it will not clear the muddied vision of an early morning.

Muddiness muddy unclear, tinnitus hiss. A gas jet in the back of the head, the silver computer in the kitchen, the door unsealed of it's dog-restraining seals, read and write, get this work done.

The children are all up now, looking at games, dressed in day clothes, dressed in night clothes. Playing games on gadgets, eyes fixed, thumbs and fingers working away.

the brother comes in , makes his cup and sits down at his seat by the window, looks out over the stretch of his land, his stream and his garden.