Even the crows are bored with today.
The park benches never lost their damp,
like timbers of sunken ships
stacked against the tarmac paths.
Lunch time doesn't even break
the everything of silence,
a quietness of a day not paying attention.
The day should have just stayed in bed.
Colour doesn't work today,
cars and post boxes are not red,
and the grass is as thin
as the starling's chest.
Desire lines are skipped
or the telling mud on leather.
While our shadows
stayed at home,
talking openly of the sun,
to stir the wasps
amongst the pomegranate trees.
To wish our lives so very far away.