Sunday Morn... Poem by karen sinclair

Balcony birds eye view
Of tiny gardens as tin soldiers
Tight in a row
Some as spoilt cherished children
Desired domains
Some have dinked boxes
Former relished
Remains....yet still standing

One seems a foxes
Potential secret den
Wildflower prolific
Non specific
Design on the eye
Nor ideas of grandest
Grace
Just good honest wildflowers
Bursting over and out
Of their space....

Sparrows combined free falling...
Sight
Spitfires versus...... Focke-wulf
Engrossed in that oh so intense...
Dog-fight
Crash landing within the foliage
Of the grandest tree

Exit sprite....one cabbage White,
Flits of hurriedly...

And the warbling starch collared wood-pigeon... settles
To sing his gracious sermon
Within the sparrow's demise
His dull low call, to me
Surreptitiously... stole the show
It was indeed a glorious
Sunday... Morn

And what happened to the battling duo
I confess..I do not know