This poem, originally written in 2000, is submitted in response to this week’s Poetry Rehab prompt http://andytownend.com/2016/01/25/poetry-101-rehab-evening/

 

Sunday Evening

Vast congregations

of rooks

loop in the dusk

and settle

on electricity

cables; agitated

by approaching sleep.

 

The sky is pink and yellow.

Rays slant

through gaps in clouds,

as if angels

would tumble

readily out of them still

onto our manicured

& post-industrial land.

If we wished

or willed.

 

The church bells

have already rung

emptily for the few

who fill them

& the fewer who care.

We drive home,

for tea and TV.

 

I watch a kids’ cartoon

about the original sin,

as my poached egg

slithers out

onto toasted bread

& oozes yolk.

 

And I cannot tell

why I see in it

all the ugliness

of the strange fruit

Adam ate,

as I will.