#167 Kevin Brophy 'Procession'

#167 ‘Procession’

Hawks come in, float across the ground

then leave us to the quiet of this particular day.

Children settle to their books or run

until they gasp and laugh.

Crows like middle managers are watching everything

and taking what they can.

The sky won’t brighten, will not burn,

does not press on us today.

It drops small planes from its blankness

gently, letting them down near us.

We go to the planes, curious about the pilots

and passengers who come, then go.

It is an easy day, we say, when

crows and cockatoos fly slow

and solemn as processions of ageing bishops

past the Jesus hill, the school, the generator

and the acres and acres of ruined, gaping cars.