Sparrows clipped like clothespins to the hoary bramble
sprawling between the bars of sun-bleached iron
industrial grey and gentle slate
to them the melding green and brown of verdant plumes and tilled earth flit as dancers past a soaring eye
and worries laid to rest at the beat of wings amidst a valley breeze
each gust a promise of future nest
I sit in a perch of my own,
eggshell, off-white walls and plastic-glass
cradling spider-black steel and burnished brass
as the sun rolls gently down the vaulted sky to mark another hour
I scratch my sign on the wall,
my thoughts on this pad
and hold my breath til 17:00.
