It is the morning.

Birdsong floating and rising above,

Allowing me a moment of music, before

Feigned silence takes hold, and the Orchestra



     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,


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



     Among these shadows,

Butterflies draw hazy lines

Across flowerbeds and short,

Stooping apple-trees.

A dash of colour to the



     Here and there woodsmoke drifts across


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



     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



It is the morning,

And the birdsong starts again.