When I conjure thoughts of dawn
it's always some vagueness
backlighting trees. Murky
like the undertow of wild ponds
then when colours, shade to lit, collide
that frontier, streaked with vibrancy
pops the day in blue hour hues.
And somewhere the surf rolls steadily
and the dawn spreads full of sound.
Over the push-pull suck of shingle
the tideline dump of bladder wrack
a tangle of shell, the freshly dead
fish head, crab claw. Gulls glean greedily
dogs on an early walk, rush them
yap, bark, yelp, and waves curl ashore.
Morning awakens to mayhem
I'm still dreaming of another dawn
never that dash for an early flight
with a rosy stripe above the clouds
But an easy mountain clamber
slate grey and ankle deep in sheep
and bracken. Back to that one reminisce
when a half moon rocketed up
and hauled a ball of sun at solstice.
I've rarely peered through crack of day
but cursed the clock-watch chanticleer
and birds in Matins, piping in the Spring
or winter's rays just when sleep begins.
Ancients adored this eastern goddess*
but I have squandered hours of sun
these lie-a-beds, and slowly dawning
are the countless hours I've left undone
- chanticleer – a rooster, personified in medieval verse narratives
- Eos/Aurora – Greek & Roman goddesses of the dawn
For my MTB prompt: It begins to dawn we are writing poetry in the style of Laura Lamarca’s A L’Arora – 4 octet stanzas (or more), no syllable count and only a required rhyme in lines 6 &8. And since it derives from aurora, Italian for dawn, this becomes the subject too.
PoetryPix 