Morning Stillborn


The stillness had layered the ocean in oil.
The mountains were airbrushed flat stencils – trompe l’oeil.
Not a whisper; the morning now holding its tongue
Gave the dreadful impression that something was wrong.
The birdsong was silent. Not even a breeze
Moved the claws in the branches of gnarly old trees,
As though Morecambe Bay slept unaware of its fate –
Intransigent; trapped in a glass paperweight.


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