Waiting

Nearly winter. The trees have feathertops.
Ducks glide on glass. Crystal leaves underfoot
Closed cafe umbrellas. A sky full of clouds
- grimy, plump pillows. And a sharp horizon
A pencil line. Sounds carry further - the Carillon ripples
Mournful, introspective.
A breeze gets up that shrinks your face
Wafts cool up your nostrils.
Boots clack on stone.
The earth freezes with knowledge
But nothing is dead, nothing -
Things are only sleeping.