Morning

Morning comes with sulphur soundsblossom so bright it hurts the eyesmorning drafts with poplar treereaching a carved superiorityto a guileless sky, swallows returnfrom my old haunts, a summer stablechildren playing in sun drenched yardlight bathes my deep sore spaces.Morning comes with variant greensbehind closed eyelids I could be anywhere.We could be as we used to besmall sounds of children snufflinghorses in an open field, swallows swooping to blue poolalong our drive walnut trees rustle in their fullness:;as long as the light dancesas long as somewhere there is youas long as I can see subtle variance of leafnot the bitter white wastes at the edge of darknessand someday I may know enough to reachthe ‘perfect sound of voiceless wisdom’.