The dirty light      that strains through the low clouds
and the soft rain     that falls on dirty rooves
where buddleia        has grown from flighty seeds

in solitude       like many urban lives
it barely lights    this gloomy living room
where I have slowed      my thoughts and shut my eyes

to feel the drain    as early evening comes
a man outside   is sawing planks of wood
the pigeons roost      up high and safe from harm

no car alarms    no telephones   no words


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Feb 01, 2012 @ 00:55:31

    Grief…you’ve gone all lyrical.
    I didn’t even hunt for metaphor or meaning…
    I just enjoyed the flow.


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