It is the morning.

Birdsong floating and rising above,

Allowing me a moment of music, before

Feigned silence takes hold, and the Orchestra

Disperses.

 

     Wind sees them off.

Rustling leaves and swaying

Branches make a calmer,

Peaceful moment.

 

     A cracked wall, dusty-red,

A reflection of the sunrise I woke to

About an hour ago now,

Runs alongside me,

A single rose observes as

I do, the watercolour sky,

 

     With sketches of charcoal that tell us

Rain will come.

And that familiar smell,

Petrichor,

That tells us it has been

While we slept.

 

     The aged metal watering-can

In the corner by the shed

Is illustrated by more than

Morning dew.

 

     Shadows play, dictated

By clouds,

The cool shade giving

Meaning to the light,

A sanctity of warmth amongst the

Chill.

 

     Among these shadows,

Butterflies draw hazy lines

Across flowerbeds and short,

Stooping apple-trees.

A dash of colour to the

Canvas.

 

     Here and there woodsmoke drifts across

Me,

From over the fence behind the

Pile of now-damp firewood,

A darker brown after the night.

 

     The sun dips behind a roaming cloud,

A silhouette flies above and below me,

As I reach the tumbledown shed.

A knot-hole gives a teasing glimpse

 

     Into the semi-darkness,

The cobwebs and stacked plant-pots

Seem almost inviting,

An insinuated secret, not quite

Whole.

 

     I turn on the edge of

A bed of wilting flowers,

And look back towards where

I was.

 

     Memories play before me,

Like butterflies,

Or the drifting of the smoke or the

Clouds.

 

It is the morning,

And the birdsong starts again.

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