In The Wings
Observations of a wet English dusk
In the murky, moody darkness,
The moon has lost her sparkle.
She is waiting in the wings
For the rain to take a bow.
Spider’s body, plump and swollen
Crochets her delicate graveyard…
Moth is on the fly-by menu
And flaps his final fight….
Flutter-bye….bye….....bye.
The window panes are weeping,
Their tears all vying for first place.
The window sill the finish line
Of this gloomy, soggy race.
Mrs Snail walks up the aisle,
Her church a cold paving slab,
Her magnificent train a
spectacle of shimmering, silvery silk.
The highboard raindrop divers
Swell on leaves’ heavy tips,
Their springboard overleaden
Until they hear a final d…r..i…p.
Butterfly performs her dying dance,
Her final night on the stage.
Listless wings applaud themselves,
This night is her resting place.
The flowers know it’s sleepy time
And close their weary eyes.
They await their shining master
Before they stretch their arms out wide.
The clouds continue to pour
Onto rooftops spread on a platter
Which they season with a constant sound
Of sprinkling salt and pepper.
The cast will perform again
To fulfil the crowd’s nocturnal ‘encore’
But not ‘til the sun’s in slumber
And the moon may sparkle once more.
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