Golden morning
In the trough of the gale and a timid sun,
in the green gauze of new leaf
that mantles every tree,
in the long grass trembling
in the trailing breeze of the wind’s tail,
the morning meadow wakes,
crowded with buttercups.
Golden morning
In the trough of the gale and a timid sun,
in the green gauze of new leaf
that mantles every tree,
in the long grass trembling
in the trailing breeze of the wind’s tail,
the morning meadow wakes,
crowded with buttercups.
Cool of morning seeps away
through broken clouds,
and the sea-sound of the tide in the trees
is the heat-throb of cicadas,
and the blue-as-the-sky of chicory flowers
bleaches to the colour of an old shirt,
abandoned outside in too many seasons of rain.
small as a nest in the grass
thin as a cat with no home
light as a lost feather
pale as moonlight
tremulous as sedge in the wind
a hand reaching out
for someone to hold.