Heaven is not the  word to awaken,
with lemon balm sprig bristle in each lung,
that staunch loam-ridden citrus bouquet,
in an urban copse of dulcet twiterring tone,
avian wrens in sweet floral flute,
whose madrigal a charmed chestnut chime,
tree canopy tremble audacious,
clam shell ear tilt of mine to absorb,
scattered  mint green leaf strewn carpet,
pale grey glisten  brittle branch snap I twig,
rain soak mud clump squelch a quaint echo,
still morning usher draped in lambent haze,
teaser trickle tucked away a prickle,
deep purple  rose bush a dawn shelter,
breathless so  I am amidst lavish terrain,
spellbound, captivated, eye transfixed,
grass blade tuft flicker in rimmed bypath,
clement backcloth to a city in slumber, 
overwhelmed too stunned, my air passage empty,
yet  that first blush stroll a vital tonic