At Dawn, a poem

At Dawn

The sun does not creep this morning,

but grips the sky, all at once,

in pulses of orange and gold and gray.

The storm is minutes away, revealed

along a doubtful horizon glow,

an intimation of dawn postponed.

Thunder heralds a darkness, wind-hollowed,

to fill with rain and remembrance.

I make coffee and wait.

Stephen Brooke ©2015