droppers
maple peas in a sack
all the leaves of autumn rolled
into shiny brown balls
they feed them to their pigeons
the men who have skies in their eyes
flying way above the smoking chimneys
where the ghostly white droppers are
tumbling them down to earth
to the click of the tongue clicks
calling them down to the loft with
it’s white lattice above the landings
feathered to the fluff
flat caps shadowing the sun’s squint
the blue expanse above the factories
the smoke and the grimed toil
homing the beauties to a flap
but why do they come back to this
at all
No comments:
Post a Comment