Morning’s Song (Draft)
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|Dawn touches Bratley View, in the New Forest, England|
by Martin Dixon, 2012
The days and nights are contrasts, like a zebra's coat of stripes,
Yet dawn and dusk have softness; they dance in pastel shades.
Their songs are more like whispers that rise and fade away,
For these are our transitions, the pauses in the plays.
The hues of dawn grow lighter, the ones of dusk grow deep.
The mists of dawn are nestled, the clouds of sunset flame.
The psalms of sunrise waken, the hymns of dusk sedate.
The morn is children’s laughter, the evening is our sighs.
I have woken and have listened to the singing of the dawn.
I have heard the song of morning; I have heard the chants that rose.
I have heard the waking whispers, I have listened to the tones.
I have heard the bells of morning as they pealed the start of day.
I’ve had mornings that were peaceful, that were tranquil, lit by grace,
I’ve had mornings that were hopeful, when it seemed that all was well.
I have walked then in the open, when the stars were still in sight.
I have seen the eastern dawning, as the night was fleeing west.
Smoky Mountains, Haywood County, North Carolina
I have felt the mists of morning; I have seen them touched by sun.
I have watched those mists arising as the dawn became the day.
I have heard the birds of morning as they tweeted, chirped and sang.
I have seen the fields and flowers as they woke to greet the sun.
I’ve been blessed by early morning, when I rose before the dawn.
I have breathed the scents of morning; I have shivered from its chill.
I have touched the wet on leaflets; I have tasted of the dew.
I have seen the waving treetops, as the morning came in view.
Daffodils, Skagit Valley, Washington
At dawn, you’ll see us rushing to get to work in time.
At evening, we’re returning, with worries still in mind.
We’ve rarely time for smiling—or even for a sigh.
And some must work the night-shifts and never see the sun.
The stars are now forgotten, the moonlight does not fall
On little children sleeping. The nightingale and lark
Are only met in readings. What still is left of soul?
How many years, how many years, have passed without the dawn?
How many years of misery, without that bit of grace?
How many hopes and dreams arose, as did that rising sun;
How few are those that still are left, as daylight cedes to dark…
I’ll rise again, before I leave, to see that precious morn—
That morning time that brings us hope and gives us strength again.
I’ll wake again, before the dawn, and venture out of doors,
To be once more, before I go, at one with morning’s song.
|Kangchendzongha, from Kolakham|
by Anirban Ganguly
looking northeast through Sikkim, from near the Bhutan border
Neora Valley National Park, West Bengal, India
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
Recent related poems:
Dawn and Dusk—II
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-duskii.html )
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dusk.html )
Dawn and Dusk
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-dusk.html )
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/06/morning-glory.html )
Sing to Me
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/11/sing-to-me.html )
and two from eleven years ago:
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/04/morning-song.html )
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/04/evening-dirge.html )