a poem with no name

Mid-September sunshine streams through the bay window,

You’re sat at a table, with pencil poised in hand.

A vase filled with flowers, overlooks an opened sketchbook,

The stereo seeps sounds of a soothing soul-band.

 

Soon, rubbings out dust the polished surface,

As silver-grey lines fill the thick white page;

Slowly and carefully revealing intricate petals,

Long slender stalks, and rough foliage.

 

On the wall behind, a black cat with pendulum tail,

Like a beating heart, ticks loudly.

As you add the final touches to your work of art,

You lean back and appraise it proudly.

 

Later, the streaming sunshine is replaced by lamplight,

And like this autumn day, the flowers will soon die,

But they’ll always be etched on that thick white page,

As an ever-lasting gift from you to I.

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