Morning cock-crow mingles with
a dingo’s trenchant wail; dawn in
breaking yawns and fakes a
clumsy smile as puffs of dirty
clouds against a drably linen sky.
Forgettably a dingy day begins its
present tense; perhaps a hint of
rain exists in coolness yet to be
expressed before the sun returns
and shames an aching metaphor.
If seeking faith in breaking dawn
then go to sleep again; there’s no
relief in knowing truth pertains to
dreams in league with hapless
views retailed by sycophants.
© 25 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
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