The morning begins out at sea
smeared orange and charcoal
which lightens as it opens.
Dark shapes say the birds feel it
stretch their wings to shake off sleep.
I think I hear a slow beat.
All colour returns to our world.
It hums hope
remembers nothing
dreams only of itself.
We may lose it if we slice it fine
not seeing its chances. Unafraid
of our slicing, it trusts us with its gift.
She asked: What is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Rose Cook 