I cross the sunlit square and pay
sixpence for an imported rose
the trees are bare
nothing disturbs the soil’s repose
but summer’s trumpets in the sky
harmony of spaces
is music silent
harmony of faces
yours
as you walk before me
you compose
more than the eloquent colours of your clothes
weary of fights
I lean about the square the wind
accommodates the sun the grass
is putting itself to rights
it seems wrong
to ask you to repair
the damage of other nights
would you do it for a song?
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