Gargoyle by Martin Parsons

meets beady eyes and
match, latch upon,
as masses move on.

An undying champion:
Set. Game. Won.
In surveillance, unblinded by sun.

For that dreamless state
is become stateless dream,
then dream of state, slate wiped clean.

Staunch with practicality,
perched, its practically eternal praxis
That rain makes good
– – flying buttresses! – –

Sitting, spitting…
While flitting
Round and round and round and round,

Here I sit. Sit with me?
                       You can’t.

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