mais qui voit la fleur, dont voir le soleil
Dawn, clock-face of the heavens, becomes
momentous with fulfilment, birds
with the eccentricity of minutes, wake,
launch themselves into the unfolding
air of time, each with its own beady
reading of history: insects too
stir into action and that same air
in its bland magnanimity, takes them in
as the Cash Converters down below
open their everlasting doors to the latest
needy – the world at large is ready for
business: early ants carting home
the injured and the accidentally dead,
young magpies squawking for
another handout and the heart
punching the body’s bundy only yet
half-awake to what may come
down the chute to it before
the next night signs it off …