Rugged cracked concrete sighs
About the bleak,
The run down, deep
Into the town centre where I wander
Around aimlessly,
Pecking at the bin’s rejected rubbish
With other charcoal pigeons.
The old broken clock face
Clangs; we flap from early to mid-afternoon;
One hand gets bored of Two; a teen
Mother puts Baby in Buggy while we
Welcome a wingbeat of peace in a solemn tune
Within a punctured melody.
Our wings swipe their colour into clouds that hide
An autumn Sun, shining
Decadently behind a silver screen,
Not burning or blinding.
The fire here belongs on the leaves
That overhang branches like youth’s sweater sleeves,
And regular, flashing blue lights,
Set to hunt some flaming thieves.
Concern passes like trains in the night.
Spiders sneak across symmetrical orbs of smashed glass
Panes of a single-glazed window,
Silent shoals of drifting litter and a crow
From the builder next-door,
Who surveys crumbling bricks of old new-builds,
And listens to asses braying in the market.
A bowl – two bowls – a pound.
A thousand flowers
Splayed on the ground.
I don’t mean the flower stall.
Out here they live all for one and one for all;
Brutal towers have brutal rules.
A hooded council,
With no currency to coin but the awry cry
Of the unseen
Estate birds;
We scatter as you hurry by.
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