Clouds

Leaves twinkle like eyes

then stop as if to say:

no we weren’t - you’re mistaken,

three clouds rise like round loaves of bread

skimming the underbelly of the shark above,

the upmost branches of a tree stagger like a drunk person

chimney pots of varying sizes

sit on the terracotta wall,

like pint glasses collected at the end of a night

and now the loaves have caved in,

too late to save them from the slice of the knife.