A roof in its building is a cage in the air,
enclosing aspiration
with timber bars that are gold in the sun.

Seen from inside
it’s a web made by men for their own capture
who clamber carefully across it
clinging against blue
where buzzards hang and seagulls call.

Slowly we close it with battens and felt,
hammer blows ring in the place below.

Strip by strip and section by section we darken the space
enclosing eventually nothing but gloom
wherein lives only an echo
which they will **** when they bring in possessions.

Finally the grey slates, the blue and the purple
sealing a tomb through which will not move
the scents and the sounds of the wandering wind.
Thus it is bound, that place.
Cut off forever and lost to the world.