UNDER THE MILK-SOFT CLOUDS

Under the drifting milk-soft clouds, blooms the perfect day.
With brooks, ravines and sun-touched streams, and beams of light at play.
The distant edge of purple spills downhill and turns to green,
as brightness herds the mist away from this seductive scene.
And wise tall trees in conference stand, their emerald crowns give shade
to sheepish swathes of blossoms closed, shy amongst the glade.
Then tickled by a breathy breeze of scented morning air,
flowers reveal their glory with their colour, taint and flare.
Whispering wings of butterflies, exploring blossoms sweet,
blend with the hum of honey bees in search of nectar’s treat.

Now, dark inked skies with stars for eyes, stare through the steely chill,
that spreads below the faint moon glow, o’er lifelessness so still.
The far-flung edge of black rolls close, becoming granite grey
and darkness tainted shades of cold keep daylight far away.
Age-old trees in silent sway, roots running wide and deep,
hold firm against the icy blow that flows from mountains steep.
The butterflies and humming bees await the morning bloom,
as seas of coloured petals hide, shut in the nightly gloom.
No covenant with light is made or promise of new day.
Expectant life awaits to see tomorrow’s bright display.