I opened the window to the hot breeze
The grey concrete let slip through the glass
Past it was the grey sky, and nothing else
Beyond the rooftops the branches from the
Trees in the little copse by the roadside
The only place that chose green in the miles
And miles of urban sprawl but unturned spring
Meant the fruitless crowns stood still and alone
A pigeon perched on the slates a while
As grey as his resting place and there
He sat, as unmoving as the rest
And I feared if I stopped tapping my toe
Or bouncing my leg that I might die
If I stopped moving I might never start again.
