Seven sisters, pricked in their dusty place,
Hold together for the moment, pullings
Rearranging their lights, eloping some
To burn the hearts of non-existent grooms
– Witnessed from Christmases in Padova.
The Prato trees, strung today, now starshine
Their circle of walkways: in old pattern,
Oneness that sticks more claim of unity,
Roping minds to search for it. All is framed,
Wrapped, arranged, like chocolates on Yule stalls,
Prettily photographed, scoffed by strollers,
Piece by piece, each its own deliciousness
Leading to no more. Seven sisters walk
Among the trees – an idea with ribbons.

@ All rights reserved, Steve Walker, 2012

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