Morning

By Joe Conmy


The holly bush bows, to

Stillness of spiked frosted grass

Neater than a teenage head

Spiraled with gel.

Distance is humbled by morning light.

Jet lines traverse the horizon

Birds perched on wire lines, twitching.

I stand in awe

The curtains drawn.


The silence

The light

Reflected on frosted grass

Extend distance,

The eye beholds.


Awakened from a restless dream

I linger and watch unfolding

Beauty and a mystic scene.

And this will fade away

As the beauty in her face

In time