Still the World is Blessèd in My Sight

Grey-drawn and grim the early morning light
The oiled egg spits and curses in the pan
But still the world is blessèd in my sight

Where blackbird sings to set the garden right
Honeysuckle drips on rusted watering can
Grey-drawn and grim in early morning light

Coffee black and bitter as a lonely night
While soft egg yolks trace golden where they ran
And still the world is blessèd in my sight

Rain patters, blurring colours almost bright
But ticking clock dictates the workday plan
Grey-drawn and grim in early morning light

Key turns in lock, then turns back to lock tight
I see on distant hills the soft rain fan
And  still the world is blessèd in my sight

I linger, one calm breath before the fight
Recall a kiss back when this day began
Grey-drawn and grim the early morning light
And still the world is blessèd in my sight

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4 thoughts on “Still the World is Blessèd in My Sight

  1. I like the combination of archaism (with “Blesséd in my sight”) and modernity (of frying eggs and coffee).
    Reminds me of an essay I recently read on poetry’s place as a break from “modernity” that brings us back to modernity better equipped to deal with it. This speaks directly to that sentiment.

    A lovely villanelle, Paul. A form I’ve yet to tackle, which is what it would no doubt sound like if I did…an ugly rolling tackle of words.

    I greatly enjoyed.

    1. Thanks for your kind words. Someone mentioned “sestinas” over the weekend … hmm, must find out more.

      I agree that the mixture archaic/modern, sacred/profane gives a way into the inner world of poetry — at least I hope it does from time to time!

      1. Oh, gods. The Sestina. The worst muse a poet could have. 😉
        I have one of those in my files that I’ve been working on for umm, two years now? A long time.
        I think perhaps I’m simply ready to abandon it. I think that I simply can not be happy with it.
        Maybe I’ll abandon it on my blog–to my readers. Especially as I have precious little new material to work on these days.

        The muse dances
        at the verge of the glen,
        enticing, but furtive….

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