Along the avenue of shorn maples,

leaded lights are discreet – distantly,

the cathedral darkens in a rose sunset.

A piano lesson begins, as cars turn

into drives and a door opens broadcasting

the six o’clock news. At an upstairs

window, a woman holds a baby, sees

nothing in the crepuscular room, hears

only the snuffle of breath on her neck,

the small heart’s beat, the swaying lullaby –

amid ordinary, pink perspectives

of curbed greenery, herbaceous living

and bells telling the hours.




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  1. #1 by John Huddart - October 29th, 2013 at 22:40

    This is the magic of where we live. Private, restrained, pollarded. Hours pass, cathedrals wax and wane. Pianos get played, and babies loved. There’s none of this in the country!

  2. #2 by GIna Marie - December 8th, 2013 at 17:27

    Gorgeous poem!

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