Watching The Gradual Appearance of Dawn as Described by the Shadows.

The dark destructive forces of the night,
have fled before the pink and creamy dawn,
and only jagged, crumpled, torn
remnants, formed as shadows in morning light
are hanging on the painted plaster wall.
All that remains is this greyness
which marks the shapes of objects, all
dappled and marbled with paleness
in patches of brilliant strangeness
whose edges are quite undefined.

The end of the blackness is clear
but, like an obvious metaphor for a state of mind,
as the shades of light's absence disappear
they fade seamlessly in their gradations,
and merge without seeming to blend.

and the old hand blown glass undulations,
which cause this display as they bend
the light, through the south eastern window,
are unconscious of their effect,
as the sun gains in strength, though it's low
in the sky, but one still can't detect
the moment of change...
then it's past.

The gramophone' s trumpet' s repeated,
there' s a fold where a shadow is pleated
as it echoes the curtain, and last
in the shades parade is the clock
with its swan neck pediment doubled
and its endless, soothing, tick and tock,
its quiet noise, untroubled
by this ancient rite,
which marks, without delineation
the ending of the night.