December Sunday Dawn
Frost
roosts on my gable fearing nothing.
The plump pigeon ruffling its feathers
considers me, as a Heathrow-bound plane
floats golden over its head;
knows it far better than I,
is not fooled by it:
knows it wakes earlier,
thinks faster,
sets the rules.
Two panes of glass, piped gas and a pen
separate me from the pigeon's living.
The plump pigeon ruffling its feathers
considers me, as a Heathrow-bound plane
floats golden over its head;
knows it far better than I,
is not fooled by it:
knows it wakes earlier,
thinks faster,
sets the rules.
Two panes of glass, piped gas and a pen
separate me from the pigeon's living.
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