I am watching a morphing circle of darkly-dressed figures
as they flock like a murder of crows on benches by the town library;
through the window the giant-sized lens of the book-lined walls,
they are medieval knights of Robin Hood drunk in a forest clearing.

It is a congress of men and a lady and it is her that catches my eye
with her alluringly-sculpted legs and elegance in her blackness;
she is swaying over them in her dishevelled mop of hair and sun-top,
swooping and diving like a magpie that spies gold in the grass.

Her treasure bottle-in-hand is a pair of sun-glasses a glinting jewel
in the sun as they reflect the bird-like dance of her teetering body;
as the eagle eyes of the men swing left and right from their wooden mount,
it's life through a curved mirror I think as she stoops to snatch her prey.