Long
ago,
I
relished, savoring that golden hour
In which
people so often flock to the sea
Eyes set
on the dipping radiant sun
And me
now
Caught completely
off-guard, unarmed,
By the
bright gold glint reflecting upon
The beige
page I cradle,
This glare
that makes me lose
Place,
interest, grip
in, on,
or about anything
but this
propositioning, this pen
and a
poem
waiting
for me
to see
it there.
Painting by Tom Thomson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting by Tom Thomson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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