The morning struck thirteen

The chosen prompt for Poets and Storytellers United: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” ~ George Orwell 

Reality is a dream that learned how to live here

The morning struck thirteen

The morning stood upright 
on a bright cold day in April.
The clock cleared its throat
and struck thirteen,
breaking the habit of time.

Rumours buzzed;
a threshold was crossed.
Pebbles skipped across the pond,
spreading ripples of truth.

People stopped
running, talking.
They watched the sky,
heard the birds sing silver songs.

The language of love bloomed,
its breath becoming a bridge

Rivers cleared,
mirroring the wisdom
of ancient trees
that wandered
like old storytellers,
whispering
the tide had turned

Fresh food rose from wet earth,
replacing factories
that once made things
the world did not need

Mirrors of ego cracked
People spoke to neighbours,
shared tools,
swapped seedlings.

Laughter stitched itself
through the streets,
the air filled
with fresh baked bread.

Loneliness faded
like mist at dawn.

The sky held happiness
as the world revealed
the quiet brilliance of peace,
still learning
how to stay.