Dave Bonta's "Inklings" is a set of small, quick images, and the feeling comes from how they sit side by side. The morning is light and lifting, "like a wing," but the next line turns to tomorrow as "a fallen-down house." Hope and ruin are placed almost in the same breath.
The middle lines suggest something unfinished, built with "bad mortar." The speaker seems aware that whatever they are making, whether a life, a plan, or a piece of writing, rests on weak material. Yet the ending is oddly relieved. No god arrived today with "a black coach," which reads to me as a sign of death or a summons. So the day is spared, at least for now.
The mood is wary but quietly grateful. The speaker doesn't panic about the crumbling future. They notice the morning, admit the flaws, and accept one more ordinary day as a small gift.