By Robert Thomas
Birds alight
On dying commotion
Playing and piping
They sing to finality.
Dogs earlier noticed
Only tugging and probing
Now pit the air with distant yelps.
Planes drone suddenly
A droning parade
Eager and white-tailed
In the fading sky.
In this fading time.
The slumping breeze
Ploughs heavy branches
Mighty tired fanning rustle.
They have more depth
In the oblique sun.
Even cars become obvious
Rolling on distinct pitches
Between late clunky bicycles.
Idle neighbours banter
Passers-by walk with purpose
Gripping cellphones
Making plans.
The birdsong fades
The branches settle
The road falls still
And monumental
In creeping calm
And rolling shadow
Robert Thomas’ poetry has appeared in Paper Plates, Autumn Sky Poetry, Witcraft and Panoply, and his fiction in The Mythic Circle, Dark Horses and Fabula Argentea. He also likes camping and canoeing and cooking. His published works can be found at robertthomasauthor.com.