This is a mystery photo my camera took without asking.
There are cracked notes in the wind’s song,
broken the wing of the bird,
and against the bridge, the waves break oily grey.
The hopeless huddle in the park
beneath the ornamental trees.
Leaves fall and drift, brown and limp
to the damp earth, where shreds of summer wings,
once butterfly, sink,
hues fading to the colour of rain.
A child with expensive hair and new clothes
kicks a can down the street,
shrugs off the question,
with a knowing smirk,
hooks thumbs in his belt,
School cannot teach him how to be a man,
a man needs only fists, not brains,
to bend and break the world to his designs.
The rain falls,
and the wind, with a catch in its voice,
sweeps all before it,
childhood, dreams of summer wings,
even the robin’s song.
What now? we ask,
but the wind, whistling now in a tin can,
gives no answer.