the rooks nest in the Linden

a long established colony

the trees stand out, bare of leaves

flat grey clouds and stillness

 

nothing enters this empty street

it’s a quiet Sunday

the bins await the refuse men

collection Monday

 

beside the houses whitewashed bricks

weeping willow, drooping, static

May is slowly budding

daffodils split the earth in triumph

 

the garden now is overgrown

a lone child kicks a stone

the empty table and six chairs

of weathered wood awaiting summer

 

i open wide this window

to listen for a sound

i hear a bird call, the creak of wings

as two wild geese circle to the river

 

no other sounds reach my ear

nothing moves in gentle air

there is nothing more to hear

this quiet Sunday