Morning tugs at the fog,
like a child tugging at its mother’s sheets.
Hills, shoulders, emerge from the night,
blinking in virgin light, unsullied with the day.
Gulls and shrill voices fill the air,
whirling dervishes of energy,
looking for scraps, fingers of toast.
Linking this to d’Verse Poets Monday Quadrille. This week Linda Lee Lyberg is hosting, and has chosen the word ‘morning’ for our 44 word quadrille. See more at:(https://dversepoets.com/2022/08/22/quadrille-158-morning-has-broken/).