First Light

Pages golden, brushed by tiny shadows
as the dawn peers through the leaves of an apple tree.
I am warmed by the light while cold ground bites my toes.
Mist has made the crisp frost as white as snow.
Silence in an age of wonder.
A faint wind whispers adventure and I follow down the track.
Jagged flint and the last of decaying apples.
Hawthorn berries scarlet as a red dress, hinting of the magic behind the audacity of life.
An oak root seat and I open again,
To pages crisp and warm, mark less and blank
I am beginning.