through the curtains at just going on
half-past-five. A whole eighteen-and-a-half
hours of it still to go and already the birds
are bursting their lungs in the hedge
just outside the bedroom window
putting you in mind of sonnets
you could warble in the bath.
Writing-poetry-day with the sun now shouting down
the dark with golden stanzas as the heavens resonate
with radiant blues and a light wind chants
among the olives and the plums and my city
once more sings itself into the clouds and magically
the universe begins to speak in tongues.