Red Robin flight of winter
fancily drawn on hedges at the window.
The sky of the Morning Star
opens blue where trussed tree surgeons perch,
chain sawing the silence,
old branches cleared
in search of more light.
Standing there, looking out,
I imagine being in another place.
How the mind yells for warm piazzas
covered in sunshine, a place to rest museum legs,
to drink coffee. Where once, nearby,
a model had posed for Botticelli
to become Venus.
…
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School Of Blue 