Careless birds flock and call under the great clean sweep of sky
Ignoring the Angel of Death as she glides silently, dark wings outstretched
Not my Death. Not my Angel. There’s that apple tree I was talking about.
Faaark off faaark off faaaark off
Down below, our houses bear invisible marks
There are dolphins in the Venice canals
The wind in the trees is louder than traffic
A pile of fallen leaves swirls and lifts and falls again as the Angel passes
Remember when we rubbed up against each other
Remember when we owned the sky
Remember when
The Angel hovers
Stories from the Shed 