Gently, freely stirs
the early morning. The canefields
stream endlessly by, garbed
in flashes of yellow glitter
scattered carelessly like yesterday's afternoon showers.
And the Rosella's and Peach Faced Lovebirds
scream an ill-timed orchestra,
and threaten the sun with rainbows,
briefly – as we speed by;
barely remarked.
The lorries and delivery vans join us
on their rounds, rumbling
down the street; – cold,
metallic, grey, Spartan,
marring the sweet scent of molasses.
But hardly a held breath,
and the summer morning arises
again,
to wrap our humble journey
in pleasing solitude.
Now only solitude.
There he resides, in the enduring warmth
of our Saturday ritual drive
to the Sandy Creek Bakery.
Yes, in some distant leg of time,
he buys me a cream-filled bun,
with strawberry jam that sticks in the corners
of my lips, while he
and old Mister Harwood give a repeat performance
of a duologue I know by heart–
How I beg to be an audience again!
But somehow life betrays us:
vigour, charitable, resolute,
unescapable in the end.
Guardians of souls passed!
(If that's what he believed)
Do you share his ritual
through canefields and Rosellas?
Dare I admit? You see
the truth in any case–
jealous, aching, lost.
Then, when the gloom is most bare,
a faint rainbow threatens,
and like the spirit of a kiss, you come to mind–
something in your eyes takes me by surprise,
Hope! Do I hope?
For the fallen, the
lonely, abused, desperate,
faded;
my cream-filled bun?
If, in the rubble left behind,
I see the stir of early morning,
gently, freely, then
I will follow your eyes. |
Submission Name: Something in Your Eyes
