His wintry trees branch bare across the evening sky
And grow in orange light behind two windows.
The chimneys of three jet black houses do not smoke,
On their glimmering facades the light which glints
Is starlight and a crescent moon which watches all.
This night sky winks at those who share the sombre joke
But Magritte, says Ernst, laughs not. His stars besprinkle
Fronts behind which families lie awake or sleep
While trees invade unblinded orange rooms
And sleepy galaxies shape figures we invent.
A square of Pegasus forms and a plough or makeshift bear
Hides colours which betray their time and age.
In Andromeda’s line of fire the Milky Way
As Magritte paints dreams to wake, not send us sleep.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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