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Perfect Day

An Edwardian lady,
shyly cupolaed,
demurely latticed;
the bandstand
drowses in the May sunshine.

I am a refugee
of the blank page;
an escapee
from words that remain ghosts;
a pilgrim
taking a detour
from the perfect paragraph.

I have surrendered
to this park bench;
to the sun on my face;
to the sea just visible
beyond her wood scrolled shoulder.

The wind in the trees;
the voices of a birds;
the murmur of traffic unseen.

No musical accompaniment is required.


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