Of This Morning, 17th February 2015.

The dawn cacophony ruptured
And I backed further into that 4am reverie,
Instead of appreciating the returning lullaby
Of twitters and calls, I descend
Into my solace, papers roll by
In a daze of ink split delirium,
Spatter and rattle of deceit and political propaganda
As fake Britain grinds its way toward Election Day,
The woodwork seems a few worms short today,
I become the automaton until freedom
Captures my soul in chains of life,
The old ladies come and nattered
As though a friendship had existed
From the birth of stars and marquee of promise,
“Mrs. So-and-So feeds the birds each morning,
She can’t do that you know,
The council don’t like it,
It’s a hundred pound fine
If she gets caught!” I nod, then smile,
Wishing each one a great day ahead
As the sun rises by 7am and once again
Great white gulls, magniloquent in their duty
Perform their blitzkrieg
Against the waiting refuse in the streets,
Spewing and spitting black plastic
While their hopping dance cascades hues
Of wasted humanity
Through the air in every directions,
They scatter at passers by,
Vermin nuisance they think
Taking to wings, strong and powerful,
There’s a chill in the air that radiates
Within those ancient azure skies,
But slowly spring fills hearts with passion,
Seeping through winters pours
To renew the beauty in every moment,
As sleep drains with winter tales, I see
Once more the magnificence in all
That conspires to fill the hours of each day,
The wasted life and bitter dreams
That fold neatly away for another lament,
Spring spirals towards prisms light
Reflecting meaning into everything I do,
Who knew the world would flow and flourish
Between the stacks and cracks of broken society,
I leave, the gulls leave and one by one pigeons
Swoop and sway to feed on left behind life,
I get home and walk up the stairs,
Just in time to see you wake,
Staring at me without a care in the cosmos,
Blanket beauty before the gods,
“Good morning,” you say,
“It has been,” I reply…


© Phen Weston, 2015.


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