Apple Light
The apple light of dawn wastes time on each dew drop upon the lawn as if these foundlings knew more than their hour of being has brought them to; more than a brief dark waiting for songster heralded rose. Anticipating more than an autumn sun has in its gift, they gleam as if to run to steam. Futile, they see their coming blindness as rays steepen. We have no illusions, brook no watery complaint beyond a look of resignation. Oats for beasts. New Zealand rugs. Oiled canvas coats.
Dave McClure, Malvern, 2003
