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
