Dawn by George Hitchcock Clouds rise from their nests with flapping wings, they whisper of worn leather, bracken, long horizons, and the manes of dark horses. In the waking stream the stones lie like chestnuts in a glass bowl. I pass the bones of an old harrow thrown on its side in the ditch. Now the sun appears. It is a fish wrapped in straw. Its scales fall on the sleeping town with its eyeless graineries and necklace of boxcars. Soon the blue wind will flatten the roads with a metallic palm, the glitter of granite will blind the eyes. But not yet. The beetle still stares from the riding moon, the ship of death stands motionless on frozen waves: I hear the silence of early morning rise from the rocks.

A feast of imagery. Seems near the end it should be “The beetle still stares from the rising–not riding–moon;” the beetle an ominous replacement for the proverbial man in the moon. Much of the imagery has a death feel to it, which that obscure “ship of death”–I’m not sure what it refers to–rounds out. The poem, beautiful and quiet, yet evokes a sense of mortal threat: “the bones of an old harrow,” “the sun…a fish wrapped in straw,” “the blue wind” flattening the roads “with a metallic palm,” the blinding “glitter of granite.” Could it be dawn brings all the things to light that die?
(Randall, I am becoming a fan of your commentary on these poems. Keep it coming. Thanks~ spot on analyses and you give me a bounce back perspective for my own reading. I appreciate what you’re doing and hope you don’t mind me saying so.)
I love this poem. This is exactly the direction I want to read more in….relating space travel and science fiction-cum-reality shared through a lens that is familiar and homespun rather than projected through cultural dystrophy caused by relentless innovation. The future is happening. I am encouraged to see a poet claim it for me. Thank you.