On Reflection
Up a little while before the rest of the house,
he sits on a small balcony
with the dawn all to himself.
Lava-tinted clouds soundlessly smoulder
above the barely-lit earth, and beyond,
the trembling waters of the wind-pestered
harbour reflect the clouds as they pass.
The house will soon be an anthill again,
and the usurped sun
will retake its throne above
the thirsting land.
He’s sitting there in the gentle cool air,
motionless and astonished by its beauty,
thinking over what beauty itself is -
this morning seeing it as the consolation
for a world of vanishing impressions;
the love of the ephemeral.
He thinks then of the shortness of his own life,
and looking out across the harbour he feels himself
to be no different to the momentary reflection
of a dawn-brightened cloud as it passes above
a narrow stretch of sea.
When he gets up to make coffee he is smiling.
