Kids at their whispers, the Devil's awake; I wait for silence, as long as it takes, Then rise to the sight of discarded flowers, Surely missing their vase. Ormsgill. To breakfast, to puzzle it still . . . Great God of the morning and all that is blessed! I stand at my window, paying my respects To a pigeon laid-out in a daffodil shroud, Reborn as the Phoenix that soars.

© 2005 Gil Orms