Morning Song
The morning dawns with a pale, flat light
and eases out the last of night,
tired of black, you’d think she might
squeeze out a little spark.
But no, her bland illumination
consists of gray and its gradations.
You’d think there’d be some small temptation
to make the world less stark.
Lightening now, the grays turn whiter
as though the celestial lamplighter
decided graciously to right her
obvious shortcomings
And now a hint of blue I see
emerging o’er the snow clad trees
and a band of peachy red that seems
to set the sky a humming.
The light grows stronger now and gleams
on silent, stately evergreens
who rouse themselves from winter dreams
and start to switch and sway.
And as the wind begins to shake
their cloaks of snow to falling flakes.
Pink clouds begin to thin and break
and simply float away.
Winter white returns full force
and day progresses in its course
I’ll let it go, with some remorse;
this fleeting, lovely thing.
Another winter sunrise gone.
But I’ll recall the day that dawned
and spread her colours on my lawn
and made the morning sing.
195
Linda Studley 