The uphill track lies drought hard,
Wispy clouds below exhale slowly,
By December's skyline,
Our world is washed of colour,
Slurred in mist,
I slip through the gap,
The unhinged gate,
Lies pointless against the volcanic wall,
It's five timber bars,
Traced with intricate lichen,
Weather and time-worn,
I trace my path across,
This unloved field of picon,
Stone and trampled gorse,
A brittle silhouette of prickly pear,
Scratches the skyline,
Suddenly a flock of canaries,
More than I have ever seen,
Lifts through the lightening air,
This gesture, an anacrusis,
Releases the day's first song.
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