16.10.2025

...and yet

Another haphazardly made wound is healing, 

New flesh, knitting to old

Even the stomach

And liver have stopped conspiring 

To fill all my hours with bile

And this late October day 

And its gently bright, clear skies, 

All puff dappled white, and

Temperate air, is too 

Much from which to hide

And even my friends, the pigeons,

Have deserted their roof-

Top roost

I imagine, they've all gone out shopping 

For more delicate lunchtime repost

Perhaps a few careless crumbs dropped 

On the decks of one of the boats 

Who look half-asleep on the 

Silver faced bay, barely 

Bobbing at all as they float

And the poor yellow alley cat, 

Who's yowling, hungry, below, 

May have to stray, and hunt

Elsewhere today, for his meager, daily prey

The world seems to be in

Accord

Someone must have found a way

After all, this Fall light is 

Far too sweet, and

No bird will die today.