Sunday 30 December 2018

Morning poem (I babble these on my way to work, freezing my ass off while the sun rises behind the industrial smoke towers)


The moon may be a harsh mistress
But the sun seems such a shy lover
I mean the earliest sun, with its gaze bent low
brushing sideways kisses to my freckles and eyelid
Rimming my cap and cheek gold
tripping all over my eyelashes
So shy and still such a glamorous difference
A young prince's first time at a ball.

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