Morning sun in ermine mist, certain of ascendance, watches me peg the washing: the irregular bunting.
By noon we are prostrate.
No other body could centre this universe.
The sky is courtly blue; clouds move as respectful whispers.
Later, I see, behind concretized blocks, the simple circle blurred with intricate fire: the colour that belittles gold.
At the traffic lights, where the roads are widest and their convergence sweeps obstructions: there the settled sun watches us retreat.