I nearly deleted this photo — a pole in the way, a couple of wires cluttering the frame — until the birds decided to rescue it. They swooped in, sketched their own storyline across the sky, and left me wondering who was really directing the scene. While they painted truth up there, I stayed down here trying to catch whatever tale fluttered past. This little poem followed soon after, curious, a bit cheeky, and happily poles apart.
Poles Apart
We’re poles apart
before we even start.
You guys up there,
me down here —
I don’t know where.
Truth flutters freely in the air.
Meanwhile, down here,
fiction is both oblong and square.
Wise cracks don’t need stairs.
Poetic knack has dare and flair,
and down here
storybooks fly anywhere
without a compere,
traveling from deckchair to airchair.
And as the birds drift off into their own truth, this tune keeps the sky talking.
Ivor Steven © September 2026
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 