The silence, Meaning only nature,

Cooing, Chirping, Twittering.

The coolness of shortening shadows,

The freshness of the awakening Spring,

Breathe deep, The smell of the season’s flora,

As the neighbourhood slumbers,

As we, Early morning walk.

It could be a Monday, Or a Thursday,

Or any week day, In these days of different ways,

But no,

It is Sunday, And still it feels, Unlike the others.

No church bells chime, No calling clang,

But it is too soon, As,

Early morning we walk.

But even if later,

The church bells are dumb,

Redundant, Furloughed,

Until a time to ring out, To call to all who can hear,

It is time to return, It is time to give praise, As,

Early morning we walk.

The pastel shades, As sun burns the shadows,

Turn to vivid Tulip yellow, On stems straight and lean,

As bedding plants bright, Nestle against tall stems of green,

And that Springtime aroma,

Of fresh cut lawns, With dew resting safe,

In the trail of the dawn.

As early morning we walk,

A wide berth is given,

To the man walking dogs,

‘Tis the days we live in,

But salutations are shared,

And nods of understanding, Acknowledge the reason,

For the unusual route, This glorious season,

As early morning we walk.

The return at our leisure, With blue over head,

As neighbourhood wakens, But most are in bed,

When the sun rises higher,

And peeps into rooms, Of rest and slumber,

Causing sleepers to stretch, And wakers to yawn,

And we think of the next time, When,

Not long after dawn, We step into the cool, As,

Early morning we walk.

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