A time-wave, cold and wintry white,
Rises out of moonless night,
Shining like a lamp-struck puddle,
Cleaning ancient tracks with light.
The air is wet. Each narrow pass,
Fashioned ugly by its task,
Softened in the glow of morning,
Catches dew from bending grass.
Every surface bears a stain,
Drying coats of slept-through rain,
Polished by the paling cloud-work
Of the morning’s high domain.
Not long before about the town
Yawning children cycle round;
Staccato noises, tyres whining
Over hard and giving ground,
Not long before the chapel, grey
And darkest at this time of day,
Speaks, reminding thoughtless natures
Luck and trouble pass away.
Already speaks its haunting gate,
Padlocked like the heart of fate,
Conducted by the mocking breezes
Leaves and litter populate.
David
David Carlewood 