He's singing on my aerial
that song of his he has, he has,
still working on, I do believe.
Here's his whistling the dog:
it's the bloke down the road.
Don't think I'd ever preach to birds.
First up, what would I say
but: 'Thanks for the music;
it's a good-life you sing...'
Is that preaching?
Where's he gone?
Not poached by a falcon...
And there he is, speaking sharply, oddly
to me, from the hanging basket bracket
and his missus sitting by the hedge end.
What? What do you want?
The dusk is thickening.
He flies off and the brown-wife too
but as I move towards my door
he's back on guttering, flits to front,
gives that strange alarm,
then launches down the street.
What's going on? I can't come.
Sorry little man, little woman.
I think they have a nest two gardens down.
I sit inside, refusant, and hope.
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
