. . . 4-something in the still, birdless morning;
Through glass doors across the room,
a dark outline of a bicycle,
the thin bars of the balcony,
I can see the deep fuchsias
of rhododendron dimly lit by building light
and the more generic urban light pollution.
I imagine that it is the moon’s doing.
Come daybreak, the blossoms
will be a bit less exotic—a bit
less lovely. They are not rhododendron.
For those, too, I left in the little park
clinging to Brynmill village.
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