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