A Poem from Prague

As old grey pavements are shed
of their icy crystal cloak
by warming sun,
the statues lining Charles Bridge
raise their stone heads.

Granite eyes peer down at
the unwary worker,
readers of guidebooks
and buskers
who serenade the deaf.

In the distance
the ghosts of dead Kings play
with shrouded mistresses
in dingy cobwebbed bedrooms
of the Palace.

Spires of churches pierce the sky
like stalagmites of stone and glass.
Their reflections flickering
like a ancient silent movie
in some alleyway cinema.

And through it all
the black waterway courses
under bridges and over wiers
carrying the leftovers of
some businessman’s lunch to the sea.

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