Sunday Morning

Here at crimson dawn he prays,

the sounds of morning, futures near.

Beside, a honeysuckle’s curled

like serpentine around a pole

as far away

a restless chaos

rides the breeze.

Low, a patterned spokenness:

rising pleas and murmured, earnest prayer.

A form in quiet conversation lone.

Just away, a vineyard tower,

Tended by the sullen hands

of workers angry

 at the heir.

Strong, a carved and solid stone

Lying near as if rejected gold,

Soon to be adjoined with hundred more

The forged foundations workers build.

The stones are turned and checked.

Only carved and fitted

find a place.

Bleats, a sound you cannot miss

That programmed music learned from long ago.

Silent sheep, beginning final hours

A predetermined exodus

That wends

rising thunder

On the breeze.  

Photo by Tim Mossholder:

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