Above Hanover Street

A blood-orange sky consorts with ravenous blue, the city-line a cardboard cut out. Still there are the wings of Liver birds, heads cast in opposite direction as if the space in between was not worth their time. The Echo man swore he’d seen one fly away once because the reds had lost one too many, leaving its lonely partner behind. From here you can’t see her copper tears yet her countenance is markedly sombre. And I wonder how long it was before she turned her head once more, ignorant of his eventual return.

William Lloyd