The sky has cleared, it is a duck-egg blue, <br />so still, so light, the clouds are few and white <br />like Royal Icing on a Christmas cake, <br />no wind, or very little. I watch my neighbour’s <br />chimney smoke across the road, it rises <br />in a thin and fitful plume that gently drifts <br />sideways, then soon disperses in the air <br />like prayer. On either side the window frames <br />a lattice-work of branches, stark and bare <br />against the sky, like Chinese characters <br />in black ink, or pebbles of dendritic agate <br />such as one finds sometimes upon the beach. <br />Beside the darkened escallonia hedge <br />a cloud of winter gnats perform their dance <br />in the lonely air, they rise and fall, advance, <br />retreat, frail bodies that for a moment catch <br />the misty light from the setting sun. There are <br />no birds or other insects in the air.<br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-view-from-my-window-on-a-late-sunday-afternoon/
