Beams of dawn-like fingers
grabbing for a new day
shatter the night
over the hidden horizon
of our concertinaed courtyard.

Dissipated lemon’d lights inexplicably
breathe patterns visible
before their time.
Their mystery is their greatest gift.

Could it be silhouettes
of trees crenelating tomorrow?

Could it be buildings interrupting inexorable progress?

Could it be the musings of a misanthropic misfit,
yet to crap upon our incarcerated Monday?

Could it be the shadow of suffering
cast off the contagiously miserable assistant warden
on her way for early rounds of arbitrary authoritarianism?

Or could it be
faint hints of hope
sneaking through the darkness?