MC ( / Isles of Scilly living in Barbados)

Sunday Morning November 11th

Sun struggles to the surface
through the heavy weight
of cloud folded in the east;
night’s comforter discarded,
leaving sky to shiver in pale grey,
unwarmed by pink,
an image that Chanel
took from the world
and splashed across
the catwalks of high fashion
while cats themselves
wear stripes and spots,
harsh smudges of bright colour
putting carnival to shame;
the click of horse’s hooves
is subtle, unexpected
in the half light
of this pallid morning
but not frightening
like the brazen crash and clash
of iron on the road,
at midnight,
coming round the corner
in the dark, gleam of moon
on chestnut, bay and silver
wild hunt of horses on the run;
Landscape shimmers as the light grows
taking on the well remembered
lines of daytime, written
with a strong hand that erases
all the secrets coaxed out
in the sable slink of night
to dance and ply their passions
in the ersatz shelter of the dark.
Dawn is stronger, golden syrup
spreading out across the cane fields
oozing through the spaces
where the wind has teased
the curtains back to let in air,
now light streams across
the tile toward me,
first hug of the day.

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