The poem
The birds' shrill fluting Beats on the pink blind, Pierces the pink blind At whose edge fumble the sun's Fingers till one obtrudes And stirs the thick motes. The room is a close box of pink warmth. The minutes click. A man picks across the street With a metal-pointed stick. Three clocks drop each twelve pennies On the drom of noon. The birds end. A child's cry pricks the hush. The wind plucks at a leaf. The birds rebegin.