The sun has crept up-
only evident through a break in the cold brick buildings-
through a golden rip in the smooth bank of of grey clouds,
the first ones to move in this winter
and grapple with the autumn sunrise.
The air is cool but the plush pines against the gold-blue
look pleasantly warmed, almost on fire, or in a halo.
Only across this patch can you also glance the pace at which clouds fly,
although all around the sky seems un-moving grey; stifled.
I have seen mornings like this before.
I have caught this fresh scent pondering a hillside in Germany,
where I had no tongue for the moment, no words to with which to speak.
I have seen trees undressed by the same golden touch,
In closer huddles, their spines more spindly in the raw dawn.
The same chill has chased me through the morning rush of Dublin
after a night of hard rain,
Trying to recall the dream I had forgotten again.
I have seen the same sun over the rise of bare chest,
Watched a flock of grey-white birds take off at the slip of a sleeper’s breath.
Hands lost in your hair like my pen this memory,
Seen this sun chase the shadows from the hollows of your cheeks…
The bricks are still cold; the day seems stuck at mid-rise,
The sun rising, and quickly setting, hardly seen.