My walk is in the early hours,
in dawn's buttery light.
There's a gold glint to all that's pale,
whether a wall of white
or waters of a placid lake
or eucalyptus trunks
or on the waving Pampas grass
or on the robes of monks.

And by the time I've lost that light,
the walking hour is done.
And I'll be looking forward to
when next the day is dun.