Beau
She walks on the wings
of daybreak,
cloak trailing.
Mist is rising over the meadow
and the trees are emerging
from their blanket of darkness.
Small early birds
are hopping and cheeping
at the feeder.
The old brown mare
whuffs a greeting
over the rail fence,
as the last star
of the morning
slowly disappears,
and the snippet of moon
silently tiptoes away.
Where will today's path lead her?
One by one,
the days are moving on,
heading into a future
which is hidden from view.
One long last look back,
before turning her face
to the morrow,
already on its way,
as this dear old earth
turns and turns,
and turns again.
