Ancram Writing

Dawn

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Was it a wind which called to us
To come and watch the dawn?

A cry which rose and like some firework broke
And splintered down across the silent water,
Echoing, drifting softly with the mist
Between the trees
And out across the heather where it died.

The sun is wet and has not dried his face
Among the pines
Which break and shake and bend the frosted light
Above the loch
As if to say: We too, we have our time.

Pushing, jostling, stopping not at all,
Anxious to arrive and not be late,
Clamouring above the solid rock,
Commuting with the rest,
Tumbles the purple burn
Into the murky waters of the loch.

Yes, you and I have sat and watched the dawn.
It was a wind which called us.

1968

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