Early hours
Dawn struggles to open its eyes to the day.
The sun persists.
Calling her army of nature to rally
Her bee-drones to gather the drowsy-sweet seducing nectar …
Her infantry of birds and insects mustered with repetition,
To the march,
To the chorus.
The murky-eyed morning chill skims against the burden of dew-heavy fields.
Rays of light hit the wall.
Fire up the mind.
Remember,
Recoil.
Things that are spoiled.
The wasteland.
Strewn.
With all the broken things …
A bleak affair.
You wander through …
Boxes with wonky lids won’t shut down tight.
All the scattered pages torn from books.
Beaten and battered against the wind.
Fond memories.
Translucent now.
Ghosts in limbo.
Their voices echo down the hallway.
All that waits
Unseen, unknown.
Within the shadow casts,
Try to beckon and bewitch.
But darkness lours and
Pulls you in with heavy arms,
To stand firm against the day,
Another hour.
By Robyn Hunt (c) 2024
