Not Dancing to the Sunlight

it was you who asked
to see
by the birches
as they softened
the shadow
of the tree line-
held dark
under the more severe angle
of a rising sun.

but now that is a day

all is weak
in these hours we wake
with soft touching:
we mouth out subtle echoes
to find one another
before the first light
helps deceive us.

for now we wonder
at our fancying
our twisted forms
restfully rising
out of the dewed grass-

a cool splash
soon lost to noon.

Steven Reid