Thread: in the House of Commons

a snake,
carved into the ceiling,
twists, turns through the foliage
and from a distance
half its body
you’d swear were moving;
the other hangs carelessly,
even precariously –
on the verge of falling;
but, of course,
for all the sculptor’s art
no magic in the world
could change
this snakes position.

Oh, this is a wicked poem, Firebird! Clever, clever, man.


( at least, I think I've heard that you're a he, please forgive if I'm wrong)