Sunday Evening

Vast congregations of rooks loop in the dusk

and settle on electricity pylons; agitated by approaching sleep.

The sky is yellow and pink as a Tiepolo;

rays slant through gaps in empty clouds,

as if angels could tumble readily out of them still

onto our manicured post-industrial land,

if we wished.

*

The church bells have already rung emptily for the few

who fill them and the fewer who care. We drive home,

glum and serene, for tea and TV. I watch a cartoon

about the original sin, and, as my tea-time poached egg

slithers out onto my plate and oozes yolk,

I cannot tell why I see in it

all the ugliness of the strange fruit Adam ate,

as I will.

Photo by Storiès on Unsplash