The Son Of St. Peter
Alone on the sill Thinking of St. Peter and the greatest book ever written When I look at the maker will he take me in his arms I can see the smoke from the factory fire that still burns Below me there is a man who walks the street He once told me of an underground cafe Whose publican kept a pet boy and a pet fox He cleans the well every morning, he has only fallen in once floating there for three days before anyone found him No one could drink the filthy water for a week He was the cleanest he had ever been And across the city, The autumn colour has begun to fall With puddles along roads that smell of shoe polish I light a cigarette with the cold fingers My mothers fingers, fingers that have drawn shapes in the sands of the past And the crows avoid the home sick pigeons While inside my lungs the dust of a roman empire settles I am finally alone on the sill This vast bookshelf to look out from Holding my leg up I see the calm street But the...