Morning Sun/Mourning Son
A stillness descended like a blackbird on a branch,
like the leaves it disturbed, falling, fluttering, settling.
And light crept, imperceptibly, all at once, growing,
like a tender new stalk in the spring, carrying on its back
a fresh dawn, crisp, crawling, gently proceeding.
The colours were soft, pale blues and greens and greys,
easier on the eyes than the stark, jarring colours of afternoon.
Somewhere there was a horizon, its line glowing with light,
the morning sun stretching its fingers, reaching its rays out
and bathing the world that it loved in light and warmth,
starting with the tree’s tops and working its way down.
The stillness was ubiquitous, it settled upon streets,
it crept into cracks and doorways and brought with it a calm.
It was absolute, and more delicate than the surface of a pond,
waiting to be disturbed, to ripple and echo and lap upon the shore.
The mourning son crouched in the bedewed grass,
blades stooping with their shimmering jewel-like burdens.
His fingers were reaching out, touching the icy marble gravestone,
tracing but not reading the name, instead glancing past it,
bloodshot eyes studying the inscription with an intensity born of grief.
“Beloved father,” it said, and he voiced it out loud.
The stillness broke, the stone had been thrown, the waves rippled,
and the morning sun stretched out and brushed him, lighting upon his hair.
A breeze awoke and wafted in, taking his words
and sweeping them away with the tattered leaves.