The Eye

The Eye

Clouds have fallen, 

hugging 

the slow-tilled sky 

of an autumnal tinted 

reflected earth, 

breathing in wisps 

of smoke and fires, 

hinting

of morning 

and of grey, 

suffusing the bending figures 

of trees 

with shrouds 

and mists 

of silver 

and the hooded cloak 

of silence, 

for dawn still sleeps, 

beyond the hidden shadows, 

behind the cage 

of city lights, 

pressing 

against the darkness, 

for it is still early, 

the streets, 

are empty, 

stray cars 

slowly weave 

into the patches 

of fog, 

hanging in veils 

and ragged curtains. 

As beneath the static glare 

of abandoned street lamps. 

Something stirs. 

Slowly at first, 

then a gradual crease 

of light, 

an eye peers 

behind hedges, 

and walls,

where the crumbling facades 

and crooked windows, 

and the blinking 

reflections 

of the first glimpses 

are of an awakening day, 

for the wind lifts himself, 

shakes off 

the dripping branches 

of a million droplets, 

and as many leaves 

falling, falling   

into the soft, 

almost grateful embrace 

of a slumbering earth, 

and again,

the eye opens, 

the wind shivers, 

the first blackbirds 

stumble into song 

upon the topmost 

branches 

of tree-touching sky, 

along the telegraph poles 

and beside 

the first puffing chimney 

and smoke 

of autumn fires, 

the eye glows, 

pale, 

from smudge 

to smudge 

to fullness, 

from mustard yellow 

to rose petal red, 

it’s shadows stretching 

and yawning, 

the wind revitalised, 

slips between 

the thinning darkness, 

the sharpening fingers 

of light 

and cajoles the fog 

in clouds 

and whispers,

between the trees, 

the hanging branches, 

the shuttered dreams 

of a retreating night.

For the eye

the sun, winks, 

obligingly,

and lifts the sky 

to welcome the day.

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