I turn over and whisper a good morning to Betjeman
Before rising to meet the sun cresting the Welsh hillside.
Marx has already gone down to breakfast
While Gandhi sits in quiet meditation,
Oblivious to Duffy and Shakespeare
Fighting for space in the bathroom.
I hear a sigh as I dress –
But it is only Austen tightening a Brontë’s
corset,
Or was it Beethoven trying to get the radio working?
When I leave the room, Tolkien follows,
More voices coming alive about us;
The wooden balconies filling with yawns,
Sleepy-eyed chatter and grumbling bellies.
Churchill is reading the paper in the breakfast room,
Freud enthusing about dreams over croissants and jam,
As Gladstone passes me holding a mug of coffee.
He takes a sip and smiles.
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