The eternity of sepulchral night
dissolves in a bruised wash
silhouetting eastern eaves.
Unconscious the houses stand
mausoleums of domesticity.
Slowly, without ceremony
the sky changes values
cepholopodal ink billows
into a line of Rose,
touches lowering clouds
and comes a band of gold.
Feathered heralds proclaim
then slip away
to find the damned worm.
Magnificence fades to pale grey.
The world turns beneath its covers
and like a grumpy Lazarus mutters
"oh what now?".
The miraculous transformation
of another day.
Like it or not.
