In the wind the canary yellow wings
flicker like eyelashes in high speed stop frame
the grass is too green and the horizon
feels out of place, almost too naked
eggs fall out of a basket
do not break, roll onto the pavement
bare feet pass it without crushing
it and somehow it flips down and along
the gutter as thought it were on a journey
light peels out of a sky painted
by a man with a goatee you can see the brush
leave out toward heaven in this one
but how quickly the crowd gathers around
the centre of the square
how the crowd gather and start to play
an old gypsy band ragged
and then people emerge and
and the street is alive
bouncing coffee beans a
carnivale of writhing bodies
sweat dirt and magic filling the air
which darkens as clouds gather overhead
sullen alley ways and the occasional lost hound
deeply nuzzled into a filthy mound
the dreams of little children
sitting in slums being washed down
slashed wet teddy bears lose their footing
and the flash flood takes it all away
white paint shines out and the music
starts up again, the polish is back
and the city gleams in anticipation
of greatness entering its gates
it holds a key up to the light
the bending buttercup flickers
and reflects