Morning

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

The clockface called it morning,

but without sense of newness,

nor of a moment pregnant

with light upon the world:

time enough to count the hours backward.

My sigh rolled across

a clutch of gathered blankets,

ill wind coursing on a naked peak.

My shadow fell across the emptiness—

stormclouds close upon a fallow field.

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These Mornings

© Steve King

All Rights reserved

These mornings the old men,

staring through the fog of coffee steam,

sing of spirits visiting their dreams,

and of a distant year,

of tears that will not balm

things that were simply meant to be.

And ritual tales of fair desire

to claim the place of memory;

laughter to deny that certain moment;

myriad reasons safely hid,

meanings that are cloaked amid

the fog of these mornings.



A new poem for The Poetry Pantry
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com