By Vahni Capildeo
From the work in progress Savannah Sequence
This week, the wheel of white-violet days
has been dropping. Velocity burns. Wheel, turn.
The doves have not landed on the roof, no,
their clever feet have not splayed or clung
along the ridges; the red tiles, unpractised
at being scaled, retain heat, while undisturbed.
The doves continue wheeling — I have seen them —
rising like a dust of sublime objection
by the very wealthy or the very young,
able to get up and leave the chamber.
Where will they land, and when? The church has lost
the blue statue from its louvred window,
the shops cleared out their garden furniture,
and toys are sent for by air. Send me then
someplace tiredness must fill my feet, high up,
maybe the abandoned tracking station.
I am no satellite. There is no moon.
© Copyright Vahni Capildeo