Morning drive ( Archived) (2)

The sun has moved
from sideways to behind me,
dawn air is cold, crisp snap
against my cheeks
that fills my sleepy head
with eyes-wide-open sparkle
as I race along the empty road,
all mine, until the yellow bus
pulls out to bring me down
to eighty, my headlong run
outracing shade cut short,
slowed to a saunter
that let the chill sink claws
into my bones.
The journey home
is sometimes pungent,
'mount stinkaroo',
the landfill, smells of death
sharp contrast to the green
and living hills, then comes the
noisy stink of pigs, a clamor
in my nostrils as they ripen
toward Christmas and the knife;
I ride sedately, sparing horses,
their power curbed and reined
as I hit the stretch to home
to find the sun has carved
a pathway, hot and gold
and leading to my door.


Good morning!