Invisible Journey

A flock of pigeons spends its days
sitting on the roof of the hotel.
Most of the time I can’t see them
from where I sit but I know they’re
almost certainly there,
sitting and thinking about
whatever it is pigeons think about,
because every now and then
they take flight en masse,
swooping down the alley,
round the square and back
and when they do
they fill my window
just for a moment
as with precision
they reach their apogee,
pulling out of a steep dive
towards the cobblestones
and heading up again
to disappear from view.

 

 

Copyright (c) Sackerson, 2019

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The Little People in my Head

 

I wrote this song the other day. I recorded it this afternoon. These are the lyrics, for anyone who would like to read them:

The little people in my head
are listening to what you say
and making notes so I’ll tomorrow
recall what you said yesterday.

The little people in my head
are watching every move you make:
they know I’m feeling hungry,
they watch the way you cut the cake.

The little people in my head
are wondering what I want to do:
they’re tired of doing the same old thing,
it’s time to think up something new.

The little people in my head
are whistling a song:
they’re asking me to play it,
don’t want me to get it wrong.

The little people in my head
are telling me to go to sleep:
they close my eyes, turn out the lights,
the little people, counting sheep.

The little people in my head
are tucked up in their little beds:
they dream of even smaller folk
asleep inside their tiny heads.

Copyright (c) Sackerson, 2019