Poem: The Silence of a Morning

There were daffodils in the springtime,
Dewy ground, the smell of real green,
The sun reflected in wet eyes
Of a road seldom used.
Slumbering dark behind windows,
The sleepy whispers of morning,
Rousing dawn from sleep,
To Paint the watercolor of day.
No children’s noises, or
Mechanical sounds, other
Than the door hinge that Mr Brown
Will fix today.
He carries a bucket, wears Wellington
Boots, treads carefully along the stone path
That he laid, brick by brick, last summer.
Now the straight lines are caressed
By a twinkling mass of yellow,
And the sun is enticing the flowers
To dance into the cracks.
Mr Brown kneels, elbow to knee,
And takes his gloved hand to the throat
Of a straggling weed.
There is no hope for the lonely;
No matter how tirelessly he works to keep them straight,
The path was built too late.
They had already decided to wander.
The vine curls around his finger,
And a sad smile rests gently in the mists
And shades of morning.