The storm of the night has abated.
Only a drizzle of a rain falls
from the now weary clouds.
Atop a mountain tall,
I stand gazing out to the sea.

The rage of the waves subsides
soothed by the warming Sun.
Grey clouds and dark waters
dabbed with gold and crimson;
a sight glorious to see.

Emerges from the flaming rays
a lone flying spectre;
a bird birthed from fire,
borne on wings of ancient splendour,
traversing the timeless sky solemnly.

High above it starts singing:
a musical cry echoing across time,
of death and end and ashes;
A lament painfully sublime
carrying a hint of a plea.

The bird changes it's note.
It's cry now the only sound,
it sings of fire,life and hope
to the stillness all around;
a music that sets free.

So singing and freeing it flies away
spreading dawn in it's wake.
I climb down to the shore.
Cold spray hits me as waves break
and water laps at my feet.

I hold in my hand a feather,
golden and fringed with red;
warm with life and fire
to resurrect all that is dead;
A quill of hope it be...