poems | Ray Waddle

SET PIECE

The pinks of dawn on hiking trail caught us staring –

dead ahead was earth’s chipped and greening self-portrait,

the frame brightening, simplifying as we walked,

emptying the air of its haunts and auguries.

There was only our small talk to mark the way –

that and a redbird rehearsing her notes

inside the wide drum of morning.

OK, maybe I exaggerate the drama besetting this

everyday tick-tock set piece set enormously in clay.

Maybe Silent Master took a moment’s rest,

gave us the run of the joint, left bread and wine

to play startled hosts in case we stumbled onto them.

After that, I headed home, reheated the coffee,

wondered if I got any of this right.