Moorland skies and breaking dawn clouds,
forcing the weak sunlight through the barren trees.
Crows with no particular places dart from one copse to the other.
Flying above your head, tearing the morning skies into shreds.
Elusive mists on the undulating lanscapes give peeks of field stubble or dark  grass.
Nearer, the feel of the five bar gate
Is damp and slimy with the dew,
The rough wood barely discernable
Until the warmth of your hand gives up enough heat to release its underlying texture.
To the right the west seems still asleep,
Unaware of the fingers of the sun's rays inching closer.
Sliding through gateways,
Over ponds and into unexpected windows.
To the east its almost day,
Cool yellow light weaving it's way through or past the trees,
Hedges, odd building and rests at your feet.
Bowed in reverence as if to hand you this day on a platter saying, '
'This day is my gift to you, enjoy.'