Those in queue talk movies.
Wood ‘n metal merged.
The wind weaves.
The dog’s bark ricochets in waves that break ‘gainst seagull’s calling.
Alit along the current air did fall, in feath’ry glide, a-whilst my coffee waits, a crow.
In age-long decades past rises the gilt Zimbabwe sun, the gutt’ral summons resonating – roaring – deep.
Under the patchwork canopy that catches falling rain…
The ocean gull approaches.
Riotous rise. Nefer-noon.
Through glass: the tiles, in rain-swept sick.
Now mourned’s the passing peace of night, its flight flown with the scorching licks of star-fire at its torn ‘n frayed heels.