Pelicans drift with the current; sunrise
scatters its golden flecks across the bay.
Geese in formation navigate the skies;
and as for me … I contemplate the day.
Charter-boats tug on moorings; a grey cloud
muscles out all hope of sunny weather;
meanwhile, two men with coffees think aloud;
morning thoughts let loose of last night’s tether;
and as for me … I watch gulls squabbling
over real-estate, scavenging the scraps
of a left over meal; a man hobbling
his way to somewhere … happiness perhaps?
. And as for me … I sit invisible;
. pondering what is and isn’t isable.

© Tim Grace, 27 May 2012

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To the reader: Morning contemplation is a rare commodity; a pleasure I’ve learned to appreciate over recent years. My solitary writing routine is just one of many day-break habits. For the socially dependent, they gather to reignite humanity’s embered coals. For the physically addicted, they re-cycle themselves with a daily grind (of coffee). The likes of me … we just watch … for there’s much to see in a new day dawning.

To the poet: … at my happiest watching words script themselves into poetry before my eyes. Some poems appear as animated scenery; translucent layers of activity, drifting planes of intermingled celluloid. The editing room converts the sketch into scribbles; sometimes with a cross-fade, sometimes with a dissolve. As a morning observation, it’s best the poem reflects rising disposition… dawning realism.

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