In the Morning

Opening the blinds,
to flickering scenery
the poppy fields spat
poetry
back at me; I haven’t
known that since

Fields for hours
drained of colour
I spied for a week
with my binoculars

A voyeur of journeys
that I have never taken
a lover of countries
that I have never seen

If I hadn’t opened my blinds,
I would not have seen the sun

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