A new place in which to write
A fresh notebook, you guessed
Through the window is a morning light
Which falls on my recently purchased desk
The writing surface withdraws
Leaded-light shadows pattern the walls
Diamonds are what I see, what I saw
For it is above the apple tree where I sit so tall
This is to be another writing place
I hope for quite some while
To be decorated in good taste
For the eventual rapturous writing style
I look down onto racks of shoes
Through the wrought-iron bannister
There are no greys, or blues
Also the handrail is faded from its lustre
