Morning In North Sligo Poem by Bernard Kennedy

Slowly back the mist cloud moves,
as if drawn, like a duvet,
from a sleepers dream.
Like a stage curtain in
a drama, opens a play.
The moving mists the day.
Birds, thrushes and starlings
play on air, swoop and dip,
like scouts in early summer river,
dammed up beside their summer tent.
The mountains, awaken the ferns,
purple colored pall.
Rocks as if giants spoons,
turned upside down.
Old pigeons coughing a sound
on branches of trees,
observing, just that.
The others swoop and dive
upon the air,
await another time,
when tents rolled up,
and curtain closes over,
and drama is complete,
the story acted out
of generations,
another night.