First Light

When the dawn is breaking,

Some things found,

A knocking.

 

Fabled ships on shores of plenty

Nothing left to claim as own,

Drawn into the depths of greens

and blues

By the lull of a sirens whim

And the longing horizon.

 

The depth of hardship

Where ice hardens and love

Springs form; a mirror,

To the dark everything above,

Thirsty for eyes;

The wandering gaze.

 

Lost dark snakes

Of the Nile originate

And Damascus brooding,

All over the heather lament

Of these damp glacial hills

Where a fable cast a light shadow

Within the fogs of this age,

 

Mystical chimes from the silent

Bell tower,

Religion receding behind stony walls,

Silent cries from the high street graveyard

And a loner sparrow perches

Above the dew-rich cobwebs

Of the old post office nook

Where we once spoke in running inks,

Not so long in the scrape and

Fodder forms around the artery,

Crossroads.

 

Brains depleted by a lasting ennui

Of soul deep melancholy etching

A new dawn replica,

 

First light not found

On reflection, no measure,

No composition, no gain to lose,

 

The finger picking songsmith

Has passed us by,

The fireside rendition of life

Shadows on the cave,

Up against the current yet locked into

Some rich vein,

Tied to a weight without measure,

Sinking in profound words

And drunk on the joys of

The wavering shimmer.

 

True harmony has left us beyond the dunes,

Where the oystercatchers fly like arrows

Towards the straits, clumps of disgarded seaweed and

Cobalt currents a molten maelstrom of conflict

Caught in glistening fluidity,

 

Much like this morning

Without first lights dawn

A pale imitation alive

Casting no shadow of consequence

To breech this stately main,

To bridge the gaps in hearts

To cross broken fingers or ingrown

Stains

Or find the word key we seek.

 

First light unlocks the gate,

Breaks the stale crust,

First light delivers.

 

I am written in.

Inked.

A knocking.

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