In The Morning

In the morning, the sun rises from its bed,

Reaching its arms out to greet the world,

Painting our home in heavenly colours,

The clouds are paint streaks across the crisp fresh sky.

The dewdrops on the carpets of grass drip, drip, dripping.

The birds awaking from their slumber,

Silhouettes against the sunrise.

The river, a blood flow through the grass and mountains.

The family of koalas, living nearby fall to the ground and scurry away,

The wombats and pygmy possums scramble over each other,

To get away, from the thud thud thudding,

They run run run until the thudding stops.

Even the sun has run away.

In the night, the moon rises from its bed,

Reaching its arms out to greet the world painting our home in silvery grey,

The barren land, a desert, a battlefield.

The river runs dry and trees are nearly all gone.

Giant creatures speed past on a solid black river and the curious koalas are gone in a flash,

And yet once again the sun greets the world to paint it in all its colours,

Above the hellish land below, and the sun sets once more.