In the early light I have come across
the old farmyard and empty field
to the dark edge of the grove,
wood pigeons coo an incessant hymn to the morning
and rabbits scatter to the safety of ditches
at my intrusion upon their dew-soaked feast.
I step into the wildwood
with footfalls too loud in the listening gloom,
camera in hand to capture a dawn
I have ached for since a childhood
spent here beneath these murmuring branches.
It is almost-dark, I am alone looking to the east.
Suddenly the sun is here, wild and orange,
rising fast in the brightening sky.
I fumble with my lens, breathless,
wanting the fiery light in just this way:
seeping through leaves across the beechnut floor
to my feet, my fingers, my ravenous heart.