A church with shabby overcoat;
made of breezeblock, cinder-faced and grey.
Barred and locked.
Locked and barred.
Litter bins around are empty
and butterflies sustain themselves by
floating to a tree, then a bush;
creating, probing, fluttering.
Me, I pray for sleep, bored,
while, southerly, a clutch of concrete mixers churn
and nearby little finches sing and flitter round. Thank the Lord.
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