The world is not a paper crane.
It’s soggy streets
and pouring rain,
rapping dreary melodies
on your window pane.
It’s side roads
and alley ways,
numb fingers
ripping sellotape
trying to put together broken things.
The world is not a paper crane.
But it’s the smell of grass
on sunny days
and matching china
cups and plates.
It’s warm blankets
round the fire place,
eagles souring
through the great escape
the day it finds its wings.