As the jackdaws
pillage the evening sky
their scrawny caw calls hoarsely
silhouetted against the
dour settling of autumn scores — squalls.
And we settle deeper
huddled towards our mugs
teeming with tea,
as the world unfurls its tragedies in teletext,
over a plate laid waste
with Battenburg.
And somewhere, at the back of our mind,
there’s an island
rich with fudge coloured stone
where evening lingers
over a land
of forgotten sleeping gods,
And incense rich
of sweet wine — drips —
and we can taste the past
among the fading shadows,
Where,
not a screech is there
in that clear clean air
to stir us.
