Morning

A white sun on a white sky,
Set against the sound of a Child's cry,
With a frozen flame igniting wakes of fighting on the wind,

An icy scent of night spent,
Up against a chain fence,
Or down along a gutter, in a puddle streamed from what?

The feeling of the morning,
Mourning something unaware,
Something that was here and haunted, and is probably not gone,

Screams were here, perhaps, or threats,
That all fled from overhead,
Because the sky was clearing up to watch,
And you can't fight when things are clear,

But the light of the white sky,
That brightens clearly nothing,
But the almost burning smell of blood and anger from the night,

Refreshes, though what's cleaned is blurred,
And the sounds have all died down though they never had been heard,