Sunday, 12 August 2012

Morning Poem, Rural France

One euclid spider
has drawn an ideal
line, sun-whitewashed
between two branches.

One breeze primps the
fanned-out spear tips
of this dried palm,
castanet-rattly, like

feathers from the tail
of one Jurassic bird
showing off rear plumage
scales to its mate.

One morning, unlike
all the other mornings:
sunlit and lonely
as any singularity.

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