The Language of Cranes

By night we watch
our weave upon this city.
Hollow looms, eyeless,
one arm, a leg and sinew,
we wait, defile the sky.

Yellow in the morning,
we pull and lift decay.
Later, perhaps snow white,
make patterns, swing
stitches into stone.
Unravel in the evening
and, blood red, rest in rubble.

Put sixpence in a parking slot
and listen to our talk,
in what was once your home.
Sleep, and when you wake
you'll find the walls have gone,
and soon we'll lift the ceiling,
show you stars. Or office lights.

Watch now how delicate we are
- you thought us lumbering -
this window that I hold
will never break, it's just for you.
I've more - they will surround your skin.
(Is this not beautiful?)

Inside I see you waving, frantic-
you seem trapped - ah yes,
it seems that we forgot the door.
There's no way out, but inside
you can live, and even earn.
(A penny for your thoughts?)

There's nothing sinister,
we mean you well.
Our language is of change -
we build or can destroy -
but will not stop. We do not sleep,
are rootless, only work
and rest and watch.
For opportunity.