And the weeks go by,
under the silver,
moonlit sky,
the gibbous I of a Western
European city,
where there’s no heat wave,
flood or wild
fire to speak of,
a hot
spring that’s gone,
Luke, warm,
And the Doctor tells her
the metal in her head
is migrating,
unlike the generations of gulls who’ve
become land-locked,
perched on the Irish artist’s
emigration story,
besmirching the bronze cast
to no end.
Zephyr descends.