Pigeon shift perch to hidden mode.
What is it her radars bode?
Only seagulls winging by;
only a sickle wing gobbling a fly;
only a shining jet contrailing the sky.
Fussy siren shocks a path through town:
kerb-clambered vehicles plomp, sighing, down.
No buzzards, no peregrines, no worries, Clown.
It's a sparrow day, a butterfly day:
broo-broo anxieties, dark fantasies away.
....................................
Gong: I'm on a roll. I write better when I rhyme anyway.
CZYTASZ
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoezjaA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
