© 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.
A new poem for The Poetry Pantry