Death in the morning
Early morning and death meets me.
It could have been the cold,
Or rather simply and
It was his turn.
A mouse in the water bowl,
Left outside for dogs and birds.
Makes me shiver to think of the poor
Creature on a night out,
Or perhaps stumbling home,
Drunk as a lord on silver beet sap
And the nectar of the verbena bushes.
The dogs watch me silently
For once, respectful,
As I fish out the poor
Bedraggled body, gently
By the tail and then overcome,
Bile rises in my throat with unwelcome
Intent; I am at once beyond the reach of the poet.
Flung the mouse ends up hitting the far fence.Early morning and death meets me.