Headphone-bound, children sing as I round the corner.
The nonchalance of late morning traffic greets
a flutter of flight – black and white feathers –
painting the street in uncontrolled strokes:
a rise, a swoop, a leap, a fall.
Ballet-graced, yet deadly in its implications:
too wild, too close to the turmoil of wheels.
Cars persevere. Children sing:
Veni Domine, et noli tardare.
O come; no delay. Around the tyre-tracks of the day,
a magpie fights death as it flies.
The Consolations of Writing 