Evasions of the Nightingale
A white plastic gutter
filled with sludge;
a bass drone
from the motorway
and summer coming on
like influenza.
The great forests dwindle,
the copses, the walled gardens.
These are thin times:
the streetwise nervy foxes
digging for meat from plastic sacks
are not more careful.
We stay off the ground,
we give nothing away,
we coo like pigeons
on the flat garage roofs.
The pale amateur cellist
with a local reputation
waits on her patio
bow in hand, microphone set.
Just in time
I remember not to sing.
Page(s) 17
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