Sunday, 6 September 2009

Dawn, Sunday

Pale yellow sky, hung on a low tide morning. 
Slow gull glide, longer than my out breath.
Hint of grey rain.

Four swans. 
They steer, level through the dark stick legs of the pier.
Slick. Pristine.

Yellow buoys idle on their chains.
Red caged lamp, still blinks to the night.

Walking home, words catch my eye. 
Almost a poem.