Saturday, 29 May 2010

The Sounds of the Morning

Bird song disperses mental fog,
This the hazy morning prologue,
The mind in limbo, the limbs will sprawl,
The feathered mimics soundtrack their call.
Day embryo, respite with pretty,
Before humdrum grit birth, of the city.

Footsteps through the air do float,
A neighbour hacks, clears his throat,
Spluttering and lungs a-kicking,
Like car engines that start a-clicking,
Tweet vocals are left to ignore,
Mechanical cogs drone in their roar.

Distant sirens, the jingle of keys,
Swooping up amongst the breeze.
Crates from lorries crash with a clatter,
Amidst high shrill of children's chatter.
The day maps out, its own plan,
Echos only like, a morning can.

Mind still fathoming, mental numb,
A road sweeper chugs past, with a hum,
Monotonous tone, engine so constant,
Like me, so there, and thus so silent.
The light transforms and morphs its disguise,
As morning grows ancient, and relentlessly dies.

Mourning the morning, harsh to learn,
Sounds the same, but will never return.

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