Let me describe the orchestra of a Friday morning.
A crow, shaggy, black as coal, caws a throaty, gravelly caw
from her lamppost, as if she begs for a lozenge.
Below, a sack barrow rattles on the cobble, clumsily
nursing kegs of stainless steel and wine bottle boxes
that clink, clang and cheer as they go.
Panting, a jogger rushes past with ABBA blasting
through his mobile phone, his heavy footsteps striking hard,
firing shots that echo and pierce the crisp morning air.
You pause to unlock the shop. The keys jingle. Your mind
still waking, eyes still opening, a belch ready to blow,
and the sun has entered, quietly crept through the archway
and spread itself across the pavement in a bright, butter blanket.
It’s there for five minutes, to politely gold the potted primrose,
to gift the weeds with warmth, to dry the beads of dew,
and then silently exits.