The birds' shrill fluting <br />Beats on the pink blind, <br />Pierces the pink blind <br />At whose edge fumble the sun's <br />Fingers till one obtrudes <br />And stirs the thick motes. <br />The room is a close box of pink warmth. <br />The minutes click. <br />A man picks across the street <br />With a metal-pointed stick. <br />Three clocks drop each twelve pennies <br />On the drom of noon. <br />The birds end. <br />A child's cry pricks the hush. <br />The wind plucks at a leaf. <br />The birds rebegin. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Stephen Fryer<br /><br />Arthur Seymour John Tessimond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/june-sick-room/
