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Like a boxer finding his feet

Gets off the floor

Or a ship buoyantly climbs

The crest with a groan


An unseen technician

Slides the dial, and here

Comes our plentiful

European light;


No scavenging hyenas

Or roaming hawkers here

To disturb our preening

Stillness. Only swans


Doing their best to glide

Like card cut-outs

Across the perfect stage

Where a man sits


Head in hands, watched

By sleeping strangers

Whilst he declares

“Morning won’t suffice.”