A finger dips into the water.

Ripples form rings as wide as the oldest tree.

The morning air tastes like

magic, as if a heavy sigh would be enough

to knock the world upside down. A boy

wraps his arms around his sun tanned knees.

Lily pad eyes peer out from under a waterfall of curls;

he lets his hair fall over his face, hiding

under the spell of dawn.

He wonders at the colours of

God’s crayon box.

The boy knows that the best shades are saved

for sunrise. The sun comes like a splatter.

The yellows, reds, oranges and pinks

seem to mix with every other colour he can

imagine. Absentmindedly, he twirls

a piece of grass between two sandy palms.

Eyes on the sky, he tucks these colours into the paint set

he keeps in an often unused corner of his mind.

A woman comes,

she calls his name and tugs him away.

She doesn’t care about the colours; she doesn’t know how

he craves the vibrancy of morning.

Morning is when the seconds drag more slowly

than his feet.

Morning is when the day is heavy

with surprise and potential.

In the morning, at dawn, no one

tells him he has to

talk.