Auldhouse Park, May Morning

The park woke.
Trees yawned and stretched,
whilst off the lead,
a freed dog ran razor-like
through the soaped-up jowls
of misty morning grass.
Its glad barks
the sleepy greenery
like pebbles popping a once still pond.

Milkmen and posties,
the border guards of a new day,
skirted the outside pavement
with bottles and bags,
and flickered past railings
in silent tribute
to Eadweard Muybridge.

And as the dog
froze and cocked an ear,
figuring the hum of a sleepy car out,
it dawned that the birds had slept in,
again missing the sunrise.


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