Watching the sun rise over CB2,

“You must be from London” she says,

From the window of her gallery,

“At least there you are mistaken”,

As I pick through the fens,

Of steaming, groaning bovine,

Rural aromas in the heart of the city,

Tingle my nostrils,

In this biting December air,

I continue my romance,

And parade at leisure,

Even work is not work here,

Like perpetually ripe fruit,

Refuses to spoil,

In the midst of my dream,

Great pleasures aplenty,

I awake with a smile and the sun,

Ready for this day and all its hidden glory.

 

 

 

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