Headlines
The Review Online
A Poem: The Morning Bird
14th October 2009
That morning bird is with flight in the painted pale breeze,
In seasons’ days of freshened skies, bitter in their blue chill,
It is flashes of gold through clouds parting for ease,
On a dazzled ocean, and frosted rolling hills.
Houses afar and near settle at last for the wretched rise,
As mists and the morning bird arrive in silent drifts,
While dazed evening stresses flee in forgotten demise,
And in the houses operate the drugged morning shifts.
Unreal defiance. A head glutted with opium and cotton,
Blinks layers of thought, of flesh, of fabric and life,
The hours dead iron bars lay shattered and forgotten,
And like the dishonest sun, peaks a shard of glittery strife.
Look the morning bird in the eye. Away with your concrete blocks,
That does nothing but labour like midday walls of brick,
And dress your liberated chest, and cling your grey socks,
And brings like a ritualised silence the trains metallic clicks.
The morning bird is your clenched quivering fist,
And the primitive forms of life in your minds ancient pool,
That as tired blinks shrinks back into opaque mist,
And recovers its shirt and suited shawl.