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Under the thunder belt of railway iron
the pigeons nestle: it is night. The pause
in traffic; the important engine purr;
prospect, retrospect, without a due cause,
arrested by their shuffling bedroom antics;
or, stationary as sentries, their closed
eyes seeing you: it lends a mute semantics
to the exchange; the drapery disclosed
of damp and black on brickwork, quite as fine
as your first floor flat where you decorate
the Christmas tree; and, following this line,
the life, preached from its pulpit, time and date,
just then: the traffic moves, removes the trance;
the images crowd in, the merry dance. |
