Turning Over Poem by Neil Crawford

The dawn chorus long since gone
a lone blackbird trills his song
to the day's blue bloom.
My pillows are clouds I float upon,
my bed, a safe, warm womb.


Reaching out, I turn the radio on,
a voice of doom announces further gloom,
my digit moves the dial a touch along
anf the thrill of Mahler's fourth
fills the room.

Despite the date, it's Friday the Thirteenth, I rise,
silly, furry slippers greet my feet,
curtains drawn, my eyes meet radiant skies,
each day a bright and welcoming
new leaf.