by on June 1, 2013 :: 0 comments

Dawn’s fingery light hesitates
Over each line on every leaf.
Boots sink to their laces
In grassland drained
Of colour – a grey page,
Stretched by a spine of trees,
Wiped dry of words
By this flight of smoke,
A dark cloud of Canada Geese,
Almost invisible,
A murmur
Rising before the sun

Cuts darkness down
Into black holes
Buried in creeks.

By still waters,
In the depths of the Crouch,
Under roots,
Beneath stones,
Those in thrall
To the night
Wait their chance,
Knowing in the end
They win
As the last sentence is read
Black covers slam
Another day shut.

editors note:

Mundane cycles of light and dark lull us into ignorance of the struggle; mighty forces at odds every day. – mh

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