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.