It stood out for it wings.

Constructed of matchbox ends, bottle tops and newspaper headlines.

It had taken three springs to learn how to fly.

But now it could,

carried by the waste.

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To the Lighthouse

He’s reading Wolfe
He’s come to talk to
Me
About her. Sitting in my office
To the Lighthouse tapping against his knee.

I sit down opposite him;
A table between.
The book’s now beside him.
The pages flickering under and between his
Fingers

‘Sir, I enjoyed it more than Keats’.
The sound of a cricket game with the breeze
Boys on the lawn.

‘I’d like to visit a lighthouse.’
One night away from drowning