Entering a repose of quietude such as there never was,
this day of days lay elongated, still shadows
lengthening in the extended afternoon.
I chanced upon Seurat on the island of the Botanics
where a placid ruffle caressed a shore of shapes
composed of definition and light,
a clarity made so by lack of purpose,
no movement in the turn of page
or gesture, no motion in a stare
or step, no breeze, no sound.
Such bucolic as marks the ending
of a day in light’s simple balm.
I could only stand and stare, there under botanics’ ancient city-palm.
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