Milk on the turn
midnight history muffles
owl’s cry: narcissus pulsing
through dull earth to release
birthday colour.
I’ve become muted: afraid
of the shine shine glitter
hidden here as time
brushes messages
on parched skin.
Pacing corridor
always waiting for
sun – skim star-burn
impatient of humdrum
yearning magnificence.
Milk on the turn
garden hovers to unfurl
blossom of spring: new joy
pulsates at the click click clunk
of the white sea gate.