WALKING IN THE MORNING SUN

I’ve walked the past few mornings

with my own indentured dusky shadow,

dependable as the sun, which recently has

banished dull, grey cloud and rain, both

vanished from the catalogues of skies

as even worshippers call up showers,

some sweet relief for wilting flowers.

 

Where I walk, though, the owner of the view,

the heavens’ store of heather drapes,

relishes its early rise, its pinks and mauves

a vivid promise of a painting nearly there

and bearing all the signs of a special year –

just like the excitement for a fine Bordeaux

in millions of bottles in cool grottos.

 

Yet the heather needs no filters from the sun,

its colours quicken, not tired but strengthened by

the light directly turned to deepening hues.

This thought squeezed out as my shadow’s shape

altered with my gait as did my feelings for

the sun and its work throughout the time

it forbade my shadow to leave my side.

 

And what I found when my pace increased

was that my darker partner lunged right out

as if intent on breaking free and quite

disinterested in any dialogue with me;

concerned only about the rest he’d get

in the sombre shade of some sun-soaked copse

or another of a thousand sheltering spots.

 

But when I tried the opposite – that is,

slowing down with my backbone straight –

my shadow seemed, like me, to prefer the change:

we were closer then and I could confide

any number of questions on my mind

which he, in turn, had time to answer –

so eloquently, more than any planned encounter.

 

And I think the lesson learned from

these last few mornings, when the sun was

well established, uncovered in its climb,

each time I walked with just my shadow

and rushed, thinking it best not to travel alone,

I will shorten my stride, hold high my tired head

and ask him to help me find wisdom instead.