Do you not see a round disk of fire somewhat like a guinea?

In two hours it'll be over England. I can't remember sunrise over Handsworth, much as I love the place and enjoy its dawns, seeing the sides of tower blocks turn to gold, cycling alone across the Hockley flyover to take an early train from stygian New Street. In Corfu I'm often watching the earth as it hurries east. No English sun has made me nervous, emerging slowly, lustering dew. In Greece by May I'm averting my eyes, sensing the warmth of an opened furnace. Winter Greece is frosty at night, but the sun, from a clear sky, corrals the morning mist, shepherds the chill, making January an English summer.
We've worked for hours on the allotment.  I ache. But we've made a second path, turned more earth, set onions, planted more flowers in the borders, sown more potatoes.