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On Friday, fourteenth of November,
Two
Thousand and Fourteen, in a south-westSuburb of London, the afternoon
Was calm after a wet and boisterous
Cold front had passed through in the morning.
The wind was still, the air warm, the heavens
Rinsed blue; level banks of cloud barely
Drifted eastwards, widely parted, glinting
In the sopping sunlight. They recalled
In their horizontal sections pigeons’
Wings, curvaceous and elongated,
As the pigeon folds them on its body.
But most, with their sheen of translucent
Grey-purple texture, as smooth and polished
As ice, they suggested the fillets,
Plump and moist, of skinless breast of chicken
I’d purchased earlier in Waitrose.
Well then, I would eat the clouds for supper.
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©
November 2014