poem by Dave Morrison


and the sun cracked the blackness
and pushed its golden fingers
through the translucent leaves,
the dusty attic windows,
pillars and railings and a
sleeping girl’s eyelashes,

and the air stirred and the
birds shouted at each other and
drops of dew shone on the tips
of grass like glass globes on the
masts of a million tiny ships,

and the worries of last night were
not gone, but shrunken and
no new worries had come;
sleep had wiped the blackboard clean
and the crows would not be denied,

and nothing was unbearable,

and everything continued and
everything began fresh,

and it was good.