The cranes cry to the cov’ring cloud.
People-watching; people, watching me.
Over the water, w’thin the waves of crashing flame, I sit ‘n write.
A finely crafted lot of letters nailed into its door, the room, so full in retrospect, slept – spacious; silent.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
The grain is mismatched ‘cross the breaks.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
Under the patchwork canopy that catches falling rain…
Now opens up to see far dist’ horizon helmed by fire.
Sun sweeps; pandemic breeze.
Rush, ruffling wind.
Two paths curve t’ward an empty cradle.
Looking o’er toward the cranes…
Blow gentlesoft, pandemic breeze, ‘breast an unop’n’d tomb.