Pale Sun
Pale in the Morning sun,
Blinking like newborns.
Our tone alabaster,
Like the statues we saw,
In old art documentaries.
The sun although weak,
Seems to energise us,
Banishing the tiredness,
That earlier consumed.
And as the birds now sing,
A chorus from brittle branches,
We inhale, meditate,
The sun stark against the white,
Like polished marble.
©® Steven Michael Pape 2021
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