Done, done, done

 In the beginning, only dark and still,

for light, you know, will never reach on time

the hidden secrets of unvarnished crime;

it barely understands plain human will.

No brilliant moment to display our skill,

but simple fragments in the smelly slime 

hardly worth least effort, nor even rhyme;

nothing that matters when the day’s gone ill.

Perhaps we needed to announce the Sun,

but never caught the urgency of rain

striking upon the window of the dawn,

hearing the loud cry of the morning gun

with all its echoes of departing pain

as the slow breezes whisk away the corn.