Lenses

A lone swan

hoom, hoom ,hoom

So low I can see it’s chest heaving with every pull against gravity

 

This evening I see the road lit living rooms of empty souls

Filled with terror

Like the view of a dream through windows, from the outside

 

Is this the real life

Within?

Without the Great Tit calls with seesaw clarity

succeeding a winter sheet, that has hung lenses from arching rose stems

That show a world upside-down