Golden Hour

Amidst rigid rows of tall, brick houses,

a verdant plain prevailed, wreathed

in black iron bars.

As summer’s grip began to stiffen, The Park breathed life

anew into our quietly baking streets.

Proud as church spires,

green alder rows adorned its border,

dyed ever-flitting shades of amber, blonde and honey as

the sun streeled through the languid sky above

with each passing day.

As though the whispering sea of wind-kissed leaves

was not blissful plenty, their waves told gently

of a vital beauty beyond.

Glimpses of bejewelled buildings: great panes of

Glasgow glass, stained gold, gleamed

through the cracks in the foliage

as the sun’s unwavering warmth was

illustrated upon them.

One could find their mind frolic through

the lives of others, behind each wall of glass.

Yet now they stand obscured, each masked by an

aureate shield.

Who or what did the

sun so hide with its oblique glare?

Yet little worry could abound,

knowing still whatever scene the

windows withheld

was bathed in those same flaxen hues that carved

our urban oasis.

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