PEREGRINATIONS
Falcons reclaim quarried heights,
gimlet the gargoyled tower,
stoop, swiftly silent,
detonating irridescent whirls
in the urban amphitheatre.
Above the startled city street
furling flocks of starlings chatter,
crenellating turrets,
gathering the Aberdeen dusk.
Val Plante
LOOKOUT
Charlotte, cobbled street:
some boozy men are looking over,
cycling girls are looking round,
and the lookout tower may be taking notes.
But its fly's-eye lens is cracked
and squashed right out of time;
witnesses and watchers
are long since called to ground.
And now instead of spies are flocks of starlings:
brushstrokes slicing through the sky,
diving down and down,
and then up home again.
And if they were the law,
the lookouts of the tower,
what would be below
their beady eyes?
Belgian beertops, broken glass,
tousled hair and backpack.
Sunken windows underground,
one boarded up
and scrawled with the message scum.
Parking meters, spaces gone,
car exhaust pipes trailing down,
Shelley Leighs – inscribed in plastic;
hobos – in a hostel for the homeless.
But see it all from the bulbous eye
within the factory grounds:
go back up that cylinder
and watch ourselves, looking down.
John Easton
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