For years we slumber,
conscious of a dawn's
imminent approach,
snapping each twig underfoot,
whittling away thick roots
which choke our lonely hearts.
When the low-bell rings,
our inner bird is flushed.
Flitter, flutter,
and suddenly
we're snared like
two night fowls
in an old mist net.
As we gaze into the light
paralysed,
we dare not stir,
so dazzled will we be
by its captivating glow.