Summer in the City

A sanguine sky
frowns down
on the City
this morning...
fingers of flame –
a dance macabre
on coruscating glass
of Bishopsgate
and Heron Towers.

Cimmerian shadows
lurk in the square
along Devonshire Row,
where black brogues
grubby, grey trainers
steel-tipped stilettos
lumber past
in a day-weary
dogged procession.

The body of a bird
lies – forlorn;
beak – bloodied,
broken; neck,
contorted...
feathers matted
with dried blood.

Festering holes
where eyes once were –
look straight through
to heaven; a murder
of crows knows
no decency, has no
sense of compunction.

A sanguine sky
frowns down
on the City
this morning...
and no one heeded;
no one saw
the pigeon
by the road.