Sweep me up

Sweep me up

Into the backspace

Where the downpipe

Is filled with debris

Even the birds

Have told me

Has no value

Other than as fodder

For the insects

Bottom feeders

Are a little less fussy

Than pigeons

Who in themselves

Are not known

For the pride

They have

In homes and gardens

Guttersnipes find a use

For most things

But rotting leaves

Make for poor

Shelter

On a cold night

When a cutting wind

Filters through

Dougong eaves

Emphasising

The sway of flower baskets

Hung as syncopated

Symbols of a bygone age

Forbidden city splendour

A flying buttress

Silhouetted

Atop wooden roofs

Weighed down

By ancient history,

A windblown past

Left to decompose

In forgotten places

Voided spaces

Rarely seen

By any thing

Larger than a Gecko

And the curious

Divinations

Of a night owl.