Palais Royale

The night cold as nuggets, dark as acorn,
against your chest; snow falling
like abandoned echoes releasing energy
into the spyglass, umbrella moon.
A solitary figure trapping hapless sparrows
not in a net but with his footprints
doubling as dungeons against the sun    -
here & there rusting eavestroughs ballooning
into avenging shadows their harpsichord voices
spun on dreams Dick Whittington once used to buy a cat.
And once Tom Thumb Upstaged Peter Pan by appearing
under a petunia but this is not likely to happen soon.
The dawn, forlorn & grey, is a court muffin's handkerchief
waved at a sailor far out at sea.