It’s never been an easy ride to place
a photograph exactly where it ought to be.
Opinions clash, hypotheses contest the wind
before the taste of breakfast turns to memory,
Witness the ease that trickles through your base
and turns a little sour, as morning drifts
apart. Is there not spice to whet your appetite
for war and peace? Is there no more sunshine
around the sound of jays and rooks and doves,
Behold English Setter on banks prepared for fish
that jump before lunchtime for flies not moths,
a dog that saved my life with eyes he fixed so firm,
until compelled to sit and drools, and I to smile
There’s no ending in sight or sound, no door
locked down, nor ice too cold to strip a breath of air
from lungs on fire. Who cut the brambles back,
murdered the blackberries, and left the path undressed?
Awake with life in mind, unheart me now before the rain,
you gods of sleep, come do your best, sustain
this chimera of dust.