2 luglio

A pair of crows

lit on an aerial

among the chimney-pots

of Florence

and seeing that there

was nothing shiny,

nothing of interest glinting in

the morning sun,

turned their heads as one

to draw a bead on the old man

watching from a window.

He was struggling

to find eleven more ways

of looking at a black bird or two.

They were peckish, bored and hungry;

sharp caws grating as a broom

pushing broken glass will,

the stolid broom of the cleaner

doing the dirty work after

last night's football frenzy,

wreckage of pint glasses

swept to the curb.

The crows flew off, leaving

the old man still at his window.