Sounds of Morning.
Brown flutterings of birds in brittle call,
Cloths gentle on the face of louvred doors,
Horns blow loud, impatient tone
And morning draws its face from dawn.
Hunched form, in crouch, for daily due,
The offering life gives to all
From what has been, will be no more;
The gutter takes the body’s soil.
Voices raised, bare limbs stretched wide
The children wake in vacant stare,
Upon the earth that gave them sleep;
This borrowed home, brief place of rest.
Like any day the threads are drawn,
Rememberings re-worked through night,
Forgetting what has been, allows,
The bruised and broken … hope, once more.