Black birds swoop and tumble,
fall flat against a darkening blue
that has no discernible start
or end,
no stars at all
just roofs like fields
for miles.
Gathered in pairs
silhouettes
speech marks and
horse chestnut trees
are giants in our midst
stoic in the yard
serenely
releasing their seeds
that fall hard and heavy
through loud, dripping leaves;
tiny bombs.
They take off again, the birds,
a quarrel across the sky.
Windows, black eyes, look on;
my neighbour’s television
sending secret codes through the curtains
as bats quiver past like decisions
we couldn’t quite
make.
Darkness rises.
In the distance
traffic roars
wave upon wave
though no sign of water while
lights flicker on,
messages between friends,
a note passed
between hands,
clock faces through glass,
birds gone.
Rosie Allabarton 