Morning

Morning, 
And there’s a strange sense of quiet,
Like the day is paused 
Between frames

And I, with the airport at my back,
Struggle to stay dry
As the salt builds up

There are no whispered nothings
Greeting the day,
No fingers tracing stories
In lazy patterns on my skin;
There are no memories to dance with
And no dreams to weave
Into the slanted rays of the sun.

And I struggle to stay dry
As the air is squeezed from my lungs
And I can’t look back.

The next frame plays, 
The day slowly comes to life
But I’ve forgotten my keys 
And morning
Moves on without me 



Janet Reid
june 2008





  
Awarded by Poetic Constellations