It's Boxing Day, and down the
stairs,
the dog, in Christmas luxury,
extends his barking voice, to greet
the absent postman's hated, absent
van,
and through the window,
like a gleaming jewel, set
amongst a bracelet filigree of
winter trees,
the blinding winter sun, lights up
the sky,
backdrop for a flypast, in fine formation,
of my glorious racing pigeons.
Like souls, in the freedom of
eternity.
26.12.93.bk9/159
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