In the whistling dawn
She is a dew reflected tracery
Of gold and green: her passing
Stirs the lees.
Only half-aware at first,
He sifts through phrases,
Stones sized and chosen
For their shape,
Their polished lustre.
She was a murmur on his page,
Elusive,
A rising breeze,
Became his eyes and ears,
Let him assume the transparent ease
Of a blind man playing knucklebones.
*
My eyes were fledged
In the monochrome of Winter,
A blitzkrieg wheeled and ricocheted
About my head.
Dawn shifts across the trees
And fronds are hooded
With an aftertaste of night.
In this silence we will sow
Our seeds, sink down
Through brimming light.
Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor
From Still Pondering https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1