The Visitor

A little departure here – this one’s not silly and it doesn’t rhyme.

 

The sun came in, a honeyed blur,

And wound itself around my legs,

Nudged me with its warm nose.

The room hummed with its purr.

And then it sat, flat, on the floor,

Curled up and went to sleep on the carpet,

The air rising and falling with its warm breath,

And it seemed the sun would never leave.

It did, of course.

It stretched and went, without so much as a by-your-leave,

And all that remained was the fading shadow of warmth,

Where it had lain, that morning.

‘Sun! Sun!’ I called (I could see the tail end of it on the garden wall).

But if it knew or even heard its name it chose to ignore it,

And hid, aloof, behind a cloud.

The sun keeps its own consul.

 

 

 

 

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