morning love

just as morning
slips creepingly into day,
skimmingly we slide,
in pools unfurling,
and in slow glidings,
light the divide
in saffron pinks;
rising we arouse
to the fetching drifts
and softened fells
of tender-skinned crooks
shooing shadows
in pell-mell races
from places
only our fingers
goingly know
until I am arrayed
only in the hymn
of gold-dawning him

© Sarah Whiteley