Morning
Its as if all measurable things
have become a threat –
clock faces that untwine our limbs,
second hands that drag our sleepy thoughts
to work, the seperation of each step away –
metres, miles -
impossible to train for; no rest allowing
of this – to go to different places in the day.
Like my dreams, half understood;
each a story of faulty echoes –
these words I take back in the morning
to say to you and make sense;
you seem too faraway when we close our eyes,
falling asleep in my hair.
It has found things to settle on;
a clip of sunlight, the shape of a leaf;
a rigid puddle of water – no subject so old
that a morning can not make
the curl of hands under the pillows;
cherub slumber buds,
so stay, stay, where the murmur of night
is left on our lips -
let the corners of the morning
be drawn without us.
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Mon 18th Nov 2013 13:42
Dazzling - and emotive, and poignant. I echo Philipos completely - my faves: 'falling asleep in my hair' because it can mean almost anything; even the obvious is truly enchanting. And 'a clip of sunlight'-what an unusual metaphor.