Beneath the shadow of grey clouds, black crows,
he sits upon the green-grey faded bench.
Behind it, trees walk past the church hedge rows,
grey-brown, nigh leafless. Water cannot quench
his thirst, dark ale, perhaps, stout, porter, bock.
Steeples and domes, corroded malachite,
can hardly light the day amid the talk
of poets, Baudelaires who love the night.
He greets me, standing on pale cobble stone,
my book of poems printed in strange fonts,
its pages yellowed. His voice is a gramophone
that says: “here everyone gets what he wants.”