Shapes mapped in the darkness

From behind gooseberry bushes
the rhythm of radio pop music
American, Detroit and I think
Today let’s live but tomorrow…

The apple tree drops apples
on leaved soil, each one a future
not bitten, the rot lets death
say which roots, which grows

On the washing-line, in pairs
Magpies chatter with harsh
judgements like toy soldiers
that stab with tin fingers

Later a moon smile breaks
an owl stays silent to a question
and the wind turns from the east
to blow a page open

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