Feel this frangible sunshine, crumbling like parchment between your fingers, scattering murmuring hieroglyphs in the dark corners of your eyes. Watch the waking birds, a soundless ripple, seven lines of gold-dusted reeds and the obstinate half-sun fleeing, once more, from the serrated jaws of the cold mountains.
Open your arms and draw them close, hear the stories they whisper in your ears, bullnosed shards of eternal life, that weave through fibre and blood, hushing your voice, teasing your hair and tracing the creased questions in your eyebrows.
Walk slowly till the weariness leaves, wafting up into the silence between the tolls of the waiting bell, until the squawking schadenfreude of the back-lit ducks ebbs all at once into the unravelling quietude.
slides out of this morning