Headphones off.
Rain writes a rhythm
restlessly
upon the pigeon panes,
as drones the filt’ring
fan-blade box;
pacing, the man complains.
The deep, dark border
green that wraps
its wooden beams stall-side
contains the scarred ‘n
padlocked slats,
above which doth abide
the Bath-stone, hollowed
arches, aching
echoes mercantile;
while ‘tween cracked stone
disintegrates
the tissue – torn; exiled.
The wind-waves ferry
only onward
th’scents of wawtry wood
and th’smells of rainswept
stone, in place
of all that which it could
contain ‘n carry
– crest ‘n fall –
were th’market not asleep…
Only the rainkept
pigeon panes
do, safe, those mem’ries keep.
Image credit – Taylor Alexandra
william altoft 