Six in the Morning

Six in the morning. February. Coffee.

I stand at the cold porch door and look out on

the brooding sapphire of the foredawn sky

pregnant with deep blue light that pales and shines

toward the horizon, where the tops of trees

like scriptures in an inscrutable alphabet

imprint themselves on the margin of the day.

 

Stones in the neighbouring graveyard

begin to whiten and become distinct;

traffic percolates through nearby streets:

sparrows sing crisp matins in the chill.

 

There is a gentle splendour in these hours

before the sun blares and commuters rush,

before St. Lucy’s bells ring Angelus.

 

Yesterday marked the first day in a week

I did not see your face or hear your voice.





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 216 times
Written on 2017-06-09 at 04:55

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Kathy Lockhart
Dear Poet, thank you for such beauty. This is most lovely in the language that I am so inept to write a worthy comment. My words fail me.
2017-06-11


Bibek
I think I read it quite a while ago. Anyway, lovely poem.
2017-06-10


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Yet you found much to celebrate.
2017-06-09