A skylark slid slowly down a garden wall
at five past midday, its gray wings in a sprawl
and fell on a flagon of herbal tea
in nineteen hundred and seventy

The world of the humans was in much awry,
some repressed others while others sat by
fear and upset and uncertainty
in nineteen hundred and seventy

But little concern for this primative masque
from the avian angel encased in the flask
only the blossom and old crashing sea
in nineteen hundred and seventy

Cheated of life or, at least, dignity
unhinged by a window, with no-one to see
the invisible glass, we got on with

This entry was posted in Old Post, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *