Tomorrow's Fate...A Poem

 

 

The day is fresh and full of hope and flesh,

will never end before the noon,

when minutes seem to nod and drowse

like ruffled doves in quiet rows

upon the fence.

Tomorrow's fate will never come.

 

But after noon,

the sly sun slides high past god;

the red hawk in keen-eyed search

of thoughtless prey, the rabbit

sprawled in blue-bush shadow

like a bather with too much burn.

Time slips and falls away,

screams at the earth

in the falcon's dive,

beak and claw in rapt extension

soon rewarded.

 

The day will surely die,

is surely dead,

will surely turn to night.

And through the long, digestion-clicking dark

of waking to check the clock,

grim gratitude in knowing

three respite hours yet remain

before the dread tomorrow,

the ghastly, glaring light of day

beneath the tilting tiger of the sky.

 

Copyright by Don Gray