David Greenhood

MY thanks to Thee are rhythmed air—

Ring out, bell … sea!

The meadow lark feels the swing of morning,

Chortles a carol of coming day;

The milkman tinkles down a stony street;

The merchant click-a-clacks past a row of stores,

And opens his own with a click-a-click of keys;

A huckster’s wagon, fresh with country scents,

Wheezes along; the reveller’s hack

Whirs down the avenue toward the dark in the west

Whence come cathedral chimes;

At town’s end the sun bends in afresh,

Makes roadside pools iridescent with dawn;

A new pale sweet now blows over gutter ways,

And eastern walls of jail turn mellow pink,

And numbed hills delight in opening poppies:

I think this day,

Lord, these be my prayer!