Morning Poem by David Cooke
Morning
Wrapped in the tang of the morning,
I stand at the edge of a stone quay.
Above my head a tilted sky
spills like a conjuror's hat, the air alive
with contending cries as day renews
to rowdy light and gulls inspect their cargoes.
Scraps thrown, offal, anything is what they consume;
and as if to exist were their only function,
their greed is a celebration
of what has willed them into flight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/1/2024 5:17:50 PM # 1.0.0.1119
