Breathe the morning

From the window
I see the roofs stretch far and orange brown
To nudge the blue skyline.
I hear the morning stillness
The cool green hush that rises from the garden
Vine-hung
Waiting for the sun.
I smell cypress and pine
And the musky smell of damp earth
Of decomposing aromatic leaves.
I breathe the pale blue air
Tasting all the facets of the morning picture.
Remembering its delicate flavour
Its cool pastel tones
The gentle crooning of the turtle doves
To savour when the brash sun burns
And stirs the noisy life
Beneath the orange brown rooftiles.

Enclosed_Field_with_Rising_Sun

Dog listens to the wind

Quintessential elemental

wind whips waves and flames

from pretty entertainments to a torrent of death

silences all sound but its own voice,

bends and breaks trees that scream possessed.

Not earthbound like heaving oceans and ephemeral fires

nor the great stirrings of the earth’s crust that rise from the inner core

wind flails the arms of galaxies and twists the meteor’s fiery tail

rushing through the darkness between spinning tops of planets.

It knows no bounds, no limits,

tells stories we cannot understand

from the confines of the universe.

Dog knows and hears and lifts his nose in trepidation

to smell the million alien smells, the fears and terrors

carried from the dreadful regions of deepest space

and sneezes on the dust of long-dead stars.

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