Untitled

swan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The central heating clanks into icy
silence and cool oblivion. Voices
cluttering the air waves favour
drone attacks over air-strikes, either way

to drop revenge over ‘democratic deficit’;
they’ll only push for a vote they can win.
In earmuffs under the umbrella you can’t
hear the soft rain, but believe anything

I say about the weather. By the time
it’s dark, the swans turn impossibly
black, dabbling in obscure waters. In

the unheated room the light-bulb takes a full
minute to reach its intensity, by which time
I’ve left in cold pursuit of the future.

Robert Sheppard

 

 

 

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