Creatures Whose Pace Is Fixed To The Light

You know what satisfies me most? Yeah, I’ll
bet – thinking below the navel sailor-like;
it’s a piece of whole grain toast, mustard
pickles and the peasant feta cheese.

Wash it down as dawn sighs to life with the
coffee you’ve finally learned doesn’t need
to curl your toes to taste alright – relax as a
peach glow creeps across the ridges and the

coffee arrives, flushing perspective, driving aside
gloom. Untrammelled thoughts resume in an
incessant chatter, bird-calls resonate, the dawn
drives up the sky while the dogs mutter and stir.

Mist patches soften stark contours of the
range and wraithlike trees emerge from
a ghostscape suspended between horizon and
the somnambulant spaces connecting.

The day has begun for those creatures whose
pace is fixed to the light, who celebrate this day
as the first, and who, with magnanimous dignity,
freely welcome me back with delight.
© 11 March 2007, I.D. Carswell