The morning begins with rain bird
Cuckoo trying to sing for more rain
Wet rain on morning roads bringing
A few fallen leaves, mirrors of puddles
A dead night’s moths lying sprawled
On the window sills remembering
Brief lives of fewer regrets, forgotten
Death events, a sun looking away.
Birds are up and about, competing
In their throaty songs with crickets
The last vestiges of a just closed night.
They go into a huddle, their music
Touching the hem of the sky loftily
In silks treasured in blushing clouds.
Now there is silence in white clouds
The sun gently peeping out making
Clouds blush more, for alleged failure.
There is no rain and a sun goes crimson
For much promise , little performance .
Thunder went quickly dead, lightning
All a swagger, nothing much to show
Only a few chalk lines behind the hills.