The poets are in the leaves
Not in any abbey.
The city is as mute as a swan
But gardens have a lot to say.
The gulls circle the fountains
In bomber formation
But it's play, a game
Of douse the fluttering angel.
They careen as the wind
Pulls them up
And disappear
When it dies.
A raven gronks "now"
As birds I've never heard,
A pied wagtail, a little grebe
Break into the beautiful,
Each bird with a different organ,
Like at Speakers Corner
Pontificating important ideas.
Cormorants on poles
Wave their wings like pianos
And say nothing,
For the local deities
Are in the London Plain.
