Painted Sky on a Morning Walk

The pre-dawn sky belonged in Tuscany and the

Quattrocento, not mid-winter Kent; gracing a

calvary, not cross-hatched by my bare trees;

glimpsed through a grotto sheltering a

pensive Saint or an impassive Madonna, not

reflected in muddy Medway;

bursting from the tomb like

Christ Triumphant, not ignored by

bored commuters on the tired tarmac of a

station carpark.

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