The Dawn

First there is blackness
pricked with light, then
tree lines come into view:
dawn is at the gate.
It lets out its light
to startle a fence
marching up a hill,
a hunched house,
a lone cat, low, white
socks padding the dust,
the great gum’s arms
reaching ever up,
leaves silver ticers.
This is how it begins,
its unfolding life,
sun lifting the dew,
the big-bellied pigeon
drawing pictures in
the lightening sky

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