I am perched on one of the benches
at the edges of a pool
of hard blank stone,
pillared by flaky plain trees
firing April’s first frills;
bolts from bony fingertips,
replenishing a canopy,
each leaf an aid,
linking armour of shade
made against the hoofing heat:
the sun makes this sun roof
through self defeating cruelty.
Opulent pigeons descend,
fluttering onto flagstones,
waddling and vigilant
between the sauntering courses
of shoals gliding across
the expanse of shallows
beneath the deepening shelter.
My Deerboy 