Hazel Hall

Bird at Dawn

Now it is to be,
This that was never known: 
Light lifts from the tree
Of dark. When it has flown,
Beating a great white wing
Over the chronic night,
There will be no thing
But will come alive with light.
Stillness, anciently long,
Will break when delicate mirth
And love tremble to song
And curve the throat of the earth.