Morning Island

Sun upon still water

but, whispering through the listening sedge

and broken,

through the shimmering, fragrant dew,

into a shower of colour,

a myriad of shades.

Casting a rainbow’s shadow,

blurring the vision

of the grassy knoll that rises

from the glass sea of winter’s final tide.

Answering the beckoning call

of bittern and swallow.

Sun upon the still lake

glancing through night’s shadows.

At the nearest edge of reeds,

touching Nature’s silverware

- once asked, releasing morning’s mist

to disguise the only handhold

on the ancient hill.

Eluding the eyes now,

even hidden

from the enlightened watcher.

once lost, never forgotten;

the bittern booms sorrowful

yet, the swallow’s silence

cries their liberty

from the watery skies.

© Andrew Williams