First light and is the night swift sent from sky to back of mind,
Forgotten timeless hours spent, awake, though eyes were blind,
Behind the clouds the sun peaks out an arm to turn the ruse,
First light’s a poet’s marvel; it’s the budding wordsmith’s muse.
The waking wind is whisp’ring ’bout a half remembered dream,
That matters not the slightest to the slightly bubbling stream,
Or to the trees that bend to touch the lazy morning’s breeze,
First light’s a simmering silence; a restless reverie.
The little mouse fears not the owl who’s sated by the night,
Nor does the owl have mind to kill, his bed consumes his sight,
It’s morning, let the world be so, let Nature keep Her way,
First light’s a careless harmony; a carefree time of day.
But there’s the creak and cranking, from the forest overhead,
A crimson dawn, and through the haze, the water runs as red,
The sense of shame, of shattered calm, an air that’s thick with hate,
First light’s a cruel ecstasy; a bitter twist of fate.
If not from owl or mouse from where, this stain upon the land?
A stranger to the playful scene, be it the claws of man?
First light’s a fickle mistress; it’s an awful game of chance,
Wake up, you might be anywhere, thank God you’re not in France.