Ponderings
from Beaufort St – 23rd May 2013
He sat atop
his pinnacle
I really
mean
The
pinnacle
It was the
aerial
From which he
spread the word
He puffed
his chest
Light
glinted on his suit
Polished black
and sleek
He cocked a
greedy eye
And gripped
his post once more
He checked
to see
His underlining
was neither
To high up,
nor to far down
For where
his lackey perched
Reflected on him
With
everything in place
He lifted
his head, opened his mouth
And cawed
I blinked,
He
disappeared
Perhaps
He was
displeased with his voice
He was a
crow after all
Perhaps his
underling had crept up
And knocked
him of his post
Perhaps he
was fed up
With early
morning hours
Or
Perhaps there
was no news
He wanted
to announce.
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