SONG: MORNING

You, with your patience,
will walk in the morning,
on black and white pavements
of marble mosaic:
your feet pacing gravely,
indented by tesserae,
down the long shadows
unrolled by the sun.

Away in the distance
the foothills lie faded,
asleep in the calm
of the lemon-white sunlight;
and as you move slowly
across the bold patterns
of black and white zig-zags,
the mountains are rising:
the bulk of their presence
heaves up into view
as the vapours they hide in
dissolve in the sun.
There is light on the peaks
of Karrhandie and Egan,
and the sky is as blue
as all Heaven together.

The herons are feeding,
traversing the meadows,
their long beaks like shuttles
mechanically weaving.
Their delicate footsteps
are stitching the pasture,
the dew on their plumage
is shining like crystal;
and the little green frogs
in the roots of grasses
hide closely, away
from their murderous glances.

Walk gently, remember
our years in the valley,
which were eaten by time
and dissolved in the sunlight.
Remember me sleeping, remember my waking,
in the calm of your patience,
in the quiet of the morning.

There are three little clouds
in the sky overhead,
and each stone of the pavement
is bordered with light.