The day

Time pulls nature’s edge, demands life listens,

as through night’s door rises day, and dawn’s dye

spikes in bright, sharp line at window’s waiting edge;

that crunch of light which nests like frost at dawn.

So does the hour throw fresh-born spirit strong,

escape from darkness surely gauranteed, as minutes

fall with joy, awake to morning’s freshened feeling;

dreams heady years slept little, yet still speak.

Green shapes of leaves, like pebbles on day’s beach,

or number strewn across eternity, are drawn again;

do spell in vision clear their vital presence, as blown

by wind through trees, like ocean’s word they breathe.


Shining skin of image is returned, restored to sight,

blackness now dispelled by light and sun on fire,

does spark in distant realms; nothing hidden now, 

for all does wing in perfect flight, for every eye. 


The nose of evening still does sniff in patient waiting,

listens for the sweet voice when afternoon does call,

knowing that while Moon has limped, forlorn away,

the hours will turn, the clock will strike, the light will fall.





Robyn:  pulls nature’s edge
Annell: door rises day
Barbara: dye spikes line
Jules: crunch frost nests
Misky: throw spirit escape
Debi: fall joy feeling
Marian: years slept little
Hannah: green pebble number
Janet: word oceans spell
Nicole: skin fire spark
Neil: nose wing wind
Irene: limped voice sweet


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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