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  • Over cross-stitched grids and circuits it flew,
    Over tapestries of tenements,
    Over states of slate and clay.

    Over monuments to industry it flew,
    Hued terracotta red,
    Thick-skinned and hot-blooded,
    The living brick.

    Over brazen faced history it flew,
    Over bluster and brass,
    Over grand visions of weight and promise it flew.
    Over clean cut and concrete characters
    Lined shoulder to shoulder with the old stock,
    In fashion with the old fashioned, it flew.

    Over vain and glamorous glass it flew,
    The sum of its reflections,
    Beguiling peaks that mirror desires,
    Keeping at bay dark mysteries.

    Over tarmac tributaries it flew,
    Watching the machines slide through,
    Tiny dolls bursting out of them,
    Scattering, slipping, dancing and dodging,
    Designer animals of their own special brand.

    Over crowds of them it flew,
    Congregating, clamouring,
    Caught without conceit,
    Shed of coverings and British guilt,
    Burning delightfully in the mad summer air.

    Opportunity struck.
    A discarded crust,
    A cheesy corn puff.
    The pigeon dives and scores it's prey.

    It bobs and cocks and swivels it's head,
    Struts and kicks and chances it's feet.
    It observes a small child
    Delivering crumbs,
    And is quickly joined by like-minded friends.

    Rachael watches, smiling,
    Seeing the boy happy.
    Barnabus smiles too.

    'So, do you think you can give me another chance?'

    Rachael curves her palm,
    Cups her lover's cheeks,
    Knows that in his eyes there is a love,
    A love that is just for her.

    She whispers.

    'No.'

    ...

    (Alas, I cannot claim credit for the gorgeous artwork shown above. This is the beautifully rendered vision of a Mr Neil Dimelow, Manchester artist. I get to see it every day I pass through the Piccadilly Plaza, and never cease to be enthralled by it.)
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