Tobias Hill

Tobias Hill





London Pastoral


I want to tell you something:

for three nights now a bird has sung

in the road trees. A water song.

The neighbours are complaining; no one

knows what species the bird is. No one

even sees it. Pools coupons

titter against chain-links. Chip cartons

scuttle past time-delayed,

time-locked shopfronts. Then the bird

starts to sing.

You'll hear it with the window open,

even when the first rain gathers

to a downpour, hallways sweet

with the residue of road-tar.

Then you can grin, or watch me grin

at woodpigeons in wet weather

sat in the road trees, suffering

damp white collars. Like divorcees,

not looking at one another.


From Midnightin the City of Clocks

Carcanet (OxfordPoets) £6.95





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