Below the crows, trapped trees
transportive windows
the soft yellow gridsheet
outlining populace and place
past befuddled pipeworks
and the lacery of tree root
How far below
the stream winds
and whimpers...
nascent water
ancient water.
I've recovered.

Pastel charm of porches stiffening
and always the sun belated
What can I hear ?!
Trickles I mind
on predetermined, delusional walks
that neighbors are non affable
tensions strung from stride to step
between street medallions
from the war
marked property of seldom seen and null
ACCESS
Standing above the iron cake
peering into the fingerholes of this clangerous instrument
the stream pours like a drum

On Abell above; heralding
crows for the coming of night
fly like a wave of soot in blue sky
or in sea, like heavy particulate metal
when stirred by the pull
of the drudging tide

The human sigh, cry for half
hopes that skip and miss, floating matters
we accompany and nod like birds
low hovering, the anxious crows make
for the passing of the day.
Between crow calls and cares
eastern words that compete with civic sirens
What might we hear?

On crested walks and spry step
the twigs tickle underfoot
the wind tossing the laughter
of youths into the trembling leaves
both are green from drink
resolved in the cellars of the ground
the wind briskly blowing through
like travelers in the city
knowing not the Abell stream
How far below the stream.