All the canaries in London,

massed in one yellow cloud,

soared up, freed from their cages,

singing, singing aloud.

All day the Thames ran golden,

reflecting those darting throngs.

All day the dome of Peter

rang with their choral songs.

But down dropped the sun, like the shutting

of a black and scarlet door--

and all the canaries in London

were locked in their cells once more.

Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie