There’s a spire growing out of a chimney
on a roof
across my street,
there’s a fish and an aerial
where birds of a feather all meet.
The fish follows the pathway of currents,
head into the wind when it blows,
I see the wind’s movement in clouds there
and in twirling of fish for it knows
And the birds know too when it’s blowing
for then the aerial is bare,
home they must go to seek shelter,
I look then and no birds are there.
Sometimes the clouds are so gathered
that sky is a uniform grey,
no movement observed in clouds passing
but I look and I check anyway.
And there, on the spire where it’s lonely,
lives a fish that never goes home,
It guides and resides, forever turning,
in the face of all winds ever blown.
It strikes me then, spires and aerials
and fish and birds at their height
serve purpose beyond their creation,
I’ll keep looking and learn what I might.