On the once dry green grass.

Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

Where the dew in drops

catch morning light,

Like heaven sent tears.

I went out for breakfast –

Cold is awakening when first felt between toes

Where dew lay moist.

Still my arm lifts under the tree

To pick a red cherry.

But my ripe one is gone.

Then an angry man spoke,

“I hate the crows”,

And wished that none were left.

Was that me reminded of death!

Had I forgot the tree, morning broke by

the black robbing raven’s

reminder of what awaits me.

Why not go down to the shore instead,

Where one might fish a herring from the sea,

and make a good breakfast.