Morning sun in ermine mist, certain of ascendance,
watches me peg the washing: the irregular bunting.
By noon we are prostrate.
No other body could centre this universe.
The sky is courtly blue; clouds move as respectful
whispers.
Later, I see, behind concretized blocks, the simple circle blurred with
intricate fire: the colour that belittles gold.
At the traffic lights, where the roads are widest and
their convergence sweeps obstructions: there the settled sun watches us
retreat.
Beautiful poem, photograph. My compliments and admiration.
ReplyDeleteThank you kind sir! I am off to spend my weekend in a field with a metric ton of children: sleep will be limited but fun not so! :-)
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