A Fallen Wind
The clock tower points
at the early dawn,
the face
of hours
glowing in bronze
upon the opening day,
and below,
the town awakens,
shutters,
doors,
windows,
opening eyes,
stretching the shadows
after the warm night
of restless sleep,
and above
the glowing rooftops,
the silhouettes
of chimneys,
aerials,
the waves
of drooping
telephone wires,
a myriad
of wings
reach and fall
and reach and fall
again,
ever upwards
in eddies
and spirals
higher and higher,
into the rising embrace
of dawn,
time taken,
time thrown
against the hours
of a fallen wind.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
