Poem 127 – Morning Dew

The unmown grass glistens. It’s chains of pearls,
Now celebrated by the avian choir,
Capture the morning’s fresh baptism of
Revitalising light and tender water.
Here briefly, under the sun’s hazy, gaze
Lost Paradise breaks through once more.
I drink deeply and drain my glass in prayer
And linger whilst I can before it fades.

It was a delight, this morning, to fling open the doors during my morning cup of tea.

© Ben Quant 2022

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