Bonta's poem plays with what counts as "news." Instead of headlines, the speaker points to quiet, physical things: ships sitting in a bay, an island of midday sunlight that seems to have drifted into view, a meal made of nothing but light. The opening lines almost work like a riddle. The news is wherever the news is, and the poem suggests that place is right in front of us, in what we notice.
The last lines turn stranger and more playful. A parliament, a symbol of official, serious news, is "found burning" at the very moment its members debate whether to pay "some rose." That's an odd, almost dreamlike image, and the poem seems to say that politics gets tangled up in small, beautiful things it barely understands. The speaker sounds calm and a little amused. The mood is bright, contemplative, and gently mocking of how we usually decide what matters.