The sky’s face watches, exhausted; blinks.
Blessed evening parades a lullaby –
woollen lavender weights travel
hot-blushing sunset casts a mural
against cold walls, whilst the city turns purple
and the air to breathe is plum.
How many have painted a sun?
with twisted wrist and loaded brush,
an idea of bright, hot, white.
Artists eyes strain above architecture, feet stuck in
northern courtyards of red brick and cobblestones,
learning that all suns are not the same,
don’t look the same,
but look like us.