Slowly it begins:
the sun wafts into the garden,
drips green onto the moss,
trails gold along the stone.
The bush funnels up the shade
where it will wait out the day.
Before long, the terrace shines white,
blinds the opening of windows.
The shingles crumple and shift
in the unfamiliar heat.
Umbrella tops drip with bamboo.
Pipes rumble and run along the walls,
the taps accelerate,
the drains burble
with rust-berries and fallen leaves.
Twigs twist out of charcoal bags
and the fences crowd with doves.
Our ladder climbs up! up!
into the hangout of the crows.
But those old birds don’t care;
they are dining on last night’s dreams.
Aerials rake the clouds,
harvest the songs and signals
out of the bluebell sky -
and the wheel of the morning
flies open.
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