Early Bird

Under cliched puffs of mushroom white
in a fractured contrast of life and bone
I've a pleasant smile and a wish to drown;
it's a glittering morning of early hate.

On gem-like splendour of septic green
a powdered crow decked in embers
works its beak upon the tender,
loving the world beyond rejection.

Gentle work of even temper
lifting our morning towards a trance,
this perfect scene, this supple dance;
and the world makes sense, until I remember.