Wayside Morning

It is morning, but not in the imperative mood.

We yawn and shower and lazily get up

Make toast and tea, time for a second cup

The rain has stopped, the lawn is petal-strewed.

Then peeping through the clouds we see the sun

Lighting grey stone, where fragrant roses cling

And mellow wood, and trees, and all I sing

Is pastorale and joy, as rabbits run.

Until we check the news, whose leaden feet

Smear and besmirch the morning’s peaceful glow

The hate-filled cars that turn glad flesh to meat

And rioting and anger, so we know

Of darker clouds and challenges to meet

For even in Arcadia, ego.


24th August 2017