Dawn-light Fraction

Sat on my bed.
More pre-dawn blackness outside, though, truth be told, there is a little fraction of pale blue light between the curtains.
The colour of cold and wintry schooldays. I remember that colour from other mornings like this too; autumn 1997 for example, London Road, Worcester, when the telephone in the hallway rang. Al and myself roused from our respective beds, unaccountably excited at the thought of some kind of 'emergency call' (It turned out to be Tim's girlfriend, acting as an alarm clock.)
Something about being up before it is light that makes me want to work in a factory, some blast furnace somewhere, a place full of smoke and steam and brick, perhaps in a wood, or certainly surrounded by bare looking trees anyway. The place would taste of snow and raw December sunsets, and there would be a constant soundtrack of noise; metal wheels on railway tracks, machine-screech, men-cries, the noise of old black and white photographs.
That fraction of pale blue light has grown stronger now. Despite this it is still a weak light, a light that seems exhausted and barely conscious. I shall watch the light on the sea from work, watch it make the waves foamy and cold, until the early night and the sea will just be a blackness and I can see no more.