The soft blanket of the sea,
a cradle for a sleepy sun.
The lines of the horizon can be
a limit to the fun.
The dull colors of the sky,
a palette of chosen things.
The light sleeps like a fly
without eyes and wings.
The day goes to sleep,
the light will come soon.
The night is dead,
resting on the moon.
© Björn Blomqvist 2025-03-21
Blomman's Art and Poetry Blog 
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