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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.”
