The drunk buried beneath fumes on a shelter bench
sees escape.
An old man walking a lead, dog far away,
sees a curse.
Slumbering holidaymakers lost in dreams of hotter shores
see nothing.
This poet, dragged from too little sleep,
feet pounding towards another grinding day,
lifts an eye and a heart and sees beauty.
Lives, hundreds, maybe thousands,
fingers touching windows, trailing
pink vapours; etching loss, partings,
pain and perhaps hope behind them.
Twelve morning flights circle
and score a dawning sky.
© Berenice Dunford 2009
