Morning Light

Morning light,

the bead, the bard,

You crept along the cottage yard,

The quickest son,

But so slow here,

and when you got, so, so, near,

You kissed the panes,

Scrubbed by summer rains,

And made a home with me,

The source to see,

Those distant hills, such lovely scenery,

Ambassadors for the best of the mothers greenery.

And did my eyes here not feast,

While zipping by were the mini beasts?

And the range along the long lengthed hills,

As lovely as these sun baked sills,

Flaked white, and by this light warmed,

when the cloud smothered, you were much mourned,

The close, dry sky, you did so share,

In that blackened bulge, were your efforts snared,

You had gone again, and were then reborn,

The purest light, on this English morn…