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forest-stream-266-2560x1600
Sleep is death everyday
And dreams, the after life.
Morning wakes Lazarus
Into a very moist terminus.

The birds call out stops,
Jetting in over roof tops.
The sun arrives from the east,
In its twelve hourly haste.

Wingless termites each pair,
From glassy littered floors appear.
Lizards leave damp cracks
Amidst frogs’ conducted croaks.

Each awakes as another
To catch the day younger.
The wet early mood hurried;
For surely last night it rained.

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