On old street
slumbering Sunday morning
Grey slate sky
Naked bony trees
A chorus of chripy birds
sing from above.
Clouds are made,
clouds are destroyed
Petrol puddles
give birth to rainbowed ripples
which fade from the eye
before the wind
awakens them once more.
On Old Street
curtains are slowly parted
sleepy light seeps through
Like dominos the houses
wake in turn
Lights flicker
deep rivers begin
to flow beneath me
warm fumes of heated bread
trace my posistion
And I am alone no more.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/breakfast-on-old-street/
