A gravel pit, long dug out shallow as an old man’s heart, but flooded
now with light. We’re here early before the swimmers, retrievers
snuffling off-lead as if every shrub bears an unwashed crotch,
under spring skies blue enough to drive even cynical minds
to poetry. Azure, lapis lazuli, cerulean – let us name its shades.
Blues as proud as the crimson that freckles unprotected cheeks
that have longed for sunkisses since autumn, now blushed red
as Doyenné du Comice in a painter’s still life. A tiny paradise
stirring under a secular urban haven. A morning so rare
that even the waterside willows have started to weep.