The rails run.
Less the windswept streetside ‘n its trials.
Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.
Energetic wisps weave; wander!
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
House. Café. Poet.
A gaze a-gaze across the fold.
I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.
The fire of the dragon’s protest-flame marks only its self ‘n message.