Glazed eyes with tiredness
Another morning, up before
Any right-thinking folk should be;
Slowly rising,
Like the sly old sun
Nefariously peeking
Over the distant hedge
Pulling aside net curtains
Spying, shiftily –
Like that Mrs Scofield
Our dinner lady, crotchety
And her husband who
Really,
We hoped was dead –
Now its piercing stare
Advances
Like the salty swash over
Lustrous shingle –
She had that, did Scofield
Always scratching –
Accentuating forms
Under its low gaze
Crystalline puddles, froze,
The veins of leaves, protrude,
Like her temples
When she barked at us
Most mornings.
Tag: Sun
Petrichor
Now, it is easy to forget.
Now, it is hard to remember,
Life before the burn –
These endless days of sun
Hexagonal cracks
In dust-parched soil;
In earth once tilled.
Now it is easy to forget
Yet yearn to recall –
The smell of Summer rain
Warm rain, drenching
That dust-parched soil –
Craters on the Moon
Or volcanoes, calmly waiting.
But the smell;
The smell of Summer rain
On thirsty ground
Lingers in me;
That fresh, uplifting memory –
Grass, springing back to life
The earth, breathing out…
Petrichor… flaring nostrils
Deep gulps of air,
Firing in my brain –
New life, new beginnings.
Red sky
This morning, the warning, from he that tends the sheep
A watery sun, but the flames are not dowsed
It burns and scorches and chars
Yet all around ice, underfoot cracks
And lines the ‘rows with trident barbs, the frost king
Trees stand sentinel, their branches a candlelit silhouette
Root like, upturned against the bands of orange cloud
morningmistermagpie.com 