First light and he draws the shades,
surrey pulling down the lane.
Clip, clop, clip, clopping cobbles
echo 'cross the alleyway.
The pastor strolls 'neath arches,
orchids overgrow window boxes.
Tick, tock, tick, tocking clockworks
in the steeple as it rains.
Cream colored walls, a creaking fan,
table settings for no one.
Photos scattered about an ashtray,
a little dog, a gentle hand.
Granite floors and window stalls,
daybreak plays upon a painting.
And though the strokes are like Gaugin,
the sands are by a different...ocean.
The bird alights the flower tree,
and caws a caw that calls to him.
Curving neck and graceful beak
yet, as she speaks,
she's gone again.
Shadows move, but nothing changes,
like the painting of the sea.
Sunlight shallows into the depths,
at 33 Queen Street.
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