15.10.2025

Prokofiev's pigeons, 

Painted the colours of 

Gutter-spilt oil and 

Gentle ash, 

Pinprick the featureless

Pale cold sky when, 

As a flock– they all alight! 

A balletic mobile in 

Multiple dimensions, 

Their bellies, now sparkling 

White, like gems, in the 

Bay's reflected 

October light

Then gently, as if by some

Prearranged contract, 

Return, to rest, once again, 

On black slab rooftops, or

Tilted solar panels, puffed up, 

Crouched low, in the 

Cold sideway winds 

And patiently wait for the 

Next orchestral updraft, so this

Corps de ballet can begin, 

Once again.