February | 2013 | Rose Cook

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 hear a slow beat,

all colour returns to our world.

It hums hope.

We may lose it if we slice it fine,

not seeing its chances.

Unafraid, it trusts us with its gift.

She asked: What is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Rose Cook