Returning

I’m getting back to a place I’ve been
where I’m not a cog in a crude machine
where much less time is spent in vain
with sycophants on the gravy train.

where knees are bent and backs are stretched
and arms are used to take and fetch
where hands of purpose mould my day
to fire a pot of stronger clay.

Pigeon

Diminutive grey bird lay curled
in bed of tat and feather fluff,
my whispered coo not near enough
to wake the pigeon from its slumber.

But fast twist flick away she flew
on renewed mission; how those creased
expressive wings awakening
were bright ascendants on the wind.