PONDS DON’T SLEEP – puttingthedogtosleep

Pigeons wheeze

From a low rooftop

Throats full

A moorhen clucks back

Slipping over Lilypads

Scarlet beak picking

From the green dishes.

Something is moving


In the thicket behind

I am waiting

To be caught in the twinkling

Of low evening

The drip of the broken pipe

From the flat opposite us

Where a magpie perches

Snatching at the shining liquid

It throws its head back to swallow.

Beneath him, by the bins and bike parts

Our neighbour is scooping a pond

Out from the dirt

Between the roots

Of a stump

He has cut two young Ash

So the sunlight will fill it

Uninterrupted by thicket

He knocks at our door

Our windows

Asking for lighters, baccy.

The bench by the fishing pond

At the end of the crescent

Is overgrowing

Ivy and nettle,

Gout weed and Cleavers

Drool on their fingers

They will coat me in it

The pond’s darkness

Insects skittering

Over the shining gloom

I am breathing it

The green-black of Ammonia

The sweetness of crushed dock

I want to sit here until the night hooks in

I have seen bats

Scattered across the rooves of prefab council boxes

As though flung from the estate towers

They dive after the bugs

Sapped by water-tension.

I can hear an owl

Over the trees shaking

Their heads in the sleepless night

Its call could bust through the heaviness

Of pollen, cracked windows, twisted sheets

And sockless feet.

for more from this word framer, click here: https://puttingthedogtosleep.wordpress.com/

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