Sun struggles to the surface <br />through the heavy weight <br />of cloud folded in the east; <br />night’s comforter discarded, <br />leaving sky to shiver in pale grey, <br />unwarmed by pink, <br />an image that Chanel <br />took from the world <br />and splashed across <br />the catwalks of high fashion <br />while cats themselves <br />wear stripes and spots, <br />harsh smudges of bright colour <br />putting carnival to shame; <br />the click of horse’s hooves <br />is subtle, unexpected <br />in the half light <br />of this pallid morning <br />but not frightening <br />like the brazen crash and clash <br />of iron on the road, <br />at midnight, <br />coming round the corner <br />in the dark, gleam of moon <br />on chestnut, bay and silver <br />wild hunt of horses on the run; <br />Landscape shimmers as the light grows <br />taking on the well remembered <br />lines of daytime, written <br />with a strong hand that erases <br />all the secrets coaxed out <br />in the sable slink of night <br />to dance and ply their passions <br />in the ersatz shelter of the dark. <br />Dawn is stronger, golden syrup <br />spreading out across the cane fields <br />oozing through the spaces <br />where the wind has teased <br />the curtains back to let in air, <br />now light streams across <br />the tile toward me, <br />first hug of the day.<br /><br />Midnight Clarity<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunday-morning-november-11th/
