A grey dawn

I see no resolute sunrise
Burning dawn fresh upon
Windows gloaming into view

Not yet have I ever crested
This slow, ache legged hill.

My pity sags deep on sunken eyes
Fury roars by my heel
As might an aged dog,
Inherited through trudging scorched earth
(Untouched by rain or blessed dew)

I limp, a turn so comical
If it were not such a tragedy
Combined with the setting still of rumour
Into the stones

Yet, and yet,
I hear the little birds and late owls looming,
Who, blessed with vision in half light
Will guide me to better sights
Than the glamour of my own two feet.