Morning

The mist, like the damp smoke of a thousand moribund fires
Creeps stealthily from surf-less ocean; a silent morose invader.
Its enemy, the wind, slumbering under the horizon with his fiery ally;
Sighing! content, unaware of the encroaching invader.
The pre-dawn eerily quiet, heavy; almost oppressive.
A Ladybird hangs from a leaf like a discarded jewel.
The dew encrusted spiders’ web hangs like a decoration from the eve.
In the field, following the contours of the ditch, a fox ambles warily home;
Peace is palpable; nature seems so perfectly at one with itself.
Somewhere in the world someone is dying, another about to be born
I wonder if, or suspect that, and hope this is, what it feels like
In the moments before those journeys begin.
Surrealistic, life not quite began or ended; a limbo between worlds.
In a distant farm yard, a cock crows and I curse his alarm call.
A glow appears on the eastern horizon at his summons
And my beautiful moment is gone.
The mist dissipates as the stars go out. Morning has broken.