Sun King


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.



Comments

Geo. said…
Beautiful poem, photograph. My compliments and admiration.
Lisa Southard said…
Thank 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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