Prologue for the day
A poem
If I could take a photo with my eyes
I’d shoot the morning skies.
What I have snapped between these lashes;
cerulean hues
and golden flashes
on the underside of a sparrows’ wings
as she dashes
from her nest and sings
the prologue for the day.
I have captured it
in my wide-eyed way.
The dew sits in its earthy pews,
sedately waiting,
for the sun to come up,
into view.
The moon lurks sheepishly
above us all,
self-consciously she shines.
She knows her act is over,
yet she sits up there so white, so high.
I watch her pussyfoot away:
she bows out
she has had her time.
The clouds, like cherub’s cheeks,
so soft and pink,
begin to stir,
shift in their seats,
changing their costumes every time I blink.
And then, she’s here!
Our star.
She gathers up her hazy skirts,
takes to the stage, and
lights up the sky.
The heliotropes stare,
blushing, as — like soufflé —
mist begins to rise.
En masse, in an ovation
for the sun’s exuberant performance,
clouds and dew and colours
lift!
They’re rendered by my eyes,
This gift;
this morning,
through my own two lenses.
But I’ve only words
to now transmit the image
to your senses.
