Quixotic

Each screech

meets space,

drops into my silence  

like a word

as the sulphur crested

white cockatoos

tilt at

trees like windmills

tangled in the dusk.

The moon above might be

Dulcinea,  

so maybe I am  

Sancho Panza,

patiently watching

from the sidelines,

sipping a glass of  

cheap white wine

and waiting till this  

madness which is no  

madness ends,

as the light fails,

the pale knights  

fold their wings,

the innkeeper, my lover,

brings out the evening meal

and Sunday night begins.  

David Kirkby