Andrew Morrison

Aubade

Sunday morning and a siren wails
like a midnight clarinetist
caught in a loop, fading,
as the unseen ambulance passes on its way
to someone else’s nightmare,
and the sound of the wind
comes back together like water
over a dropped stone.
In the street leaves dance
a round or two
and then retire, exhausted and confused,
like old folk in a waiting room,
while overhead a plane pursues its mission,
ferrying passengers across the Styx
to their final destinations.

The winter sun, wan and watered down,
is working hard to wake a world
reluctant to relax its grip on sleep.
Someone ought to let it know,
it’s Sunday morning. Let it go.

Born London 1953. Ed. Oxford, where I studied Classics and ran a poetry workshop. Joined a bank and moved to US. Have lived last 30 years in San Antonio Texas , while keeping a base in the Outer Hebrides.
Former chairman of the American Financial Services Association. Closely involved with various organizations aiming to strengthen the ties between Scotland and its diaspora. Was recently described by The Times as an “expert in Highland culture “!