MORNING
Fresh is the dew that wakes sleeping flowers
From their much needed nightly, restful sleep.
Cheerful is the birds song from forest deep
As they serenade each other from leafy bowers.
Suns rays touch the sky with vivid gold,
The dying stars fade in the morning light
That bursts upon the world to make it bright,
And so wakes afresh the slumbering fold
Of man, furry four legged creatures stir
To hunt for their food in lush fragrant grass
Or mossy river banks hidden from view,
Where they may play, romp and then bask anew
In the gift of morning, could they let it pass
Unused, unnoticed? but welcome it with praise
Of pure silent rapture throughout their days.

M Ann Margetson May 25 1998 ©