I sit outside
In Mother’s chair
Such a perfect evening
With weather so fair.
From her cigarette-seat
I see the floor’s littered
But upon looking up
My view is much bettered.
And the pigeon-tree flutters
Its finger-bones bouncing
Framed, as a picture
O’er grass that is dancing.
In the distance one hears
The child-magnet tinkle;
Ice cold remains
Of a warmth so fickle.
From my low-vantage
I spy the dreamy blue colour
Of the plane-road above me
Awash with pretty cloud cover.
As the phoenix-dust falls
I’m blind to its embers
Just a faint pink glow
Is cast up, to the heavens.
A similar sun set I captured in Paris.
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