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The Muezzin Mutt

Nothing is alive
Not even the still air
Frost lies
Like images of breath
Cold upon the field

She wakes and whines
It is morning
Time for the muezzin
To hail the dawn
In neighbour's yards

She is a slow, sad sound
Broken only
By the dreams of the lonely
Only the refrain
Makes friends of an echo

The tip of a sycamore
Bends as if some
Fractured vane
Or rusted peacock tail
Had petrified in peace

She tries to crown clouds
With each bay leaf
The sky is flat today
The sun breaks like a yolk
On the mutt's snout

© David Incoll 2001

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Copyright by David Incoll 2001