Pierces the pink blind
At whose edge fumble the sun’s
Fingers till one obtrudes
And stirs the thick motes.
The room is a close box of pink warmth.
The minutes click.
A man picks across the street
With a metal-pointed stick.
Three clocks drop each twelve pennies
On the drom of noon.
The birds end.
A child’s cry pricks the hush.
The wind plucks at a leaf.
The birds rebegin.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer

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