Morsels of Morning

After a long fallow period when poems did not come easily to me, I decided I was over thinking things.

On my morning walks, I am often inspired by something I see – the colour of the sky, shape of a tree, a creature that crosses my path, and the moon, always the moon. Occasionally a few words pop into my head to describe the experience. I decided to keep those words rolling around my tongue as I wandered, repeating them over and over and adding whatever other words that felt compelled to join them. Much of the repetition is a desperate attempt to memorise the poetic scrap so that I can write it down when I get back to my notebook. At first, I believed that these morsels of morning were not real poems, but that is silly. Anything can be a poem. Here are a whole lot of little poems.

Come for a morning walk with me through the streets, along the river and up the hills in Howick.

The dogs howl
I howl
We hold our breath
and she’s gone

Lift your eyes
Morning skies striped purple and peach
Held up by skeleton trees

let us split the sky in two
yellow for me and
blue for you

charcoal smudges
above a burnished horizon
hold the memory of last night

Who painted the sky with watermelon
and mango?
Was it you, Mr Sun?
Hello!

Half a moon
A single star
Ever wonder where you are?

daar’s ‘n glimlag in die lug
with eyes closed
she tries to evade
the light
her smile fades
more, kom sy terug?

I had streaky skies for breakfast
Impoverished people ate bacon


duck silhouettes skim and slide
in blue swathes swept through cinnamon skies

slug-a-bed sun
ignores winter’s call
wakey, wakey, rise and shine

tip-toeing through sparkled
grass in the dark
it’s easy to believe in magic

a monochrome buffet
cooked with fire and ice,
awaits herons who rose at first light

swifts dash
mirrored
no splash

old colours
copper
coal
gold
reflected in cold steel

a lunar sliver beckons
the reluctant sun
it is mid-winter after all
the longest night.
despite human-induced planetary chaos
and oddly warm pre-dawn perambulations
some things don’t change

A bushbuck doe darts to and fro
Human. Dog. Fence.
There is nowhere to go

A Pocketful of Morning

I like to collect treasures on quiet early wanders, to finger in my pocket later in the day.

Damp duck beaks
raptor feet tucked tights
a herald of hadedas contemplate flight

a translucent flutter
copper coloured cheers
a cold cluster of Combretum leaves

red poker glow
webs well spun
sorbet stripes that beckon the sun

single-legged silhouette
horizon full of moon
Aloe arborescence in orange bloom

expert weaves
elusive scents
ruby lilies with a foreign accent

popcorn clouds
real connections
and rocks, settled into deep reflections

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Christeen says:

    I love all your morsels! Each an evocative story, xxx

    Liked by 1 person

    1. And I love yours!

      Liked by 1 person

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