Paper Money

High upon the breeze it spins and soars,
over cars and taxis and all pedestrian wanderers,
flitting, fluttered, floating along,
until it falls to ground again.

Along the trees from where it came from,
wooden pulp died grey and green,
pressed into an oblong thin,
to be of certain use again.

It's been flying since I lost it,
amongst the whirling wind and winding road,
between the alleyways and sidestreets,
crawling down the pavement slabs again.

But as the wind dies down it stops,
and limps along in bounds and shuffles,
skipping concrete cracks and crevice,
until it is picked up again.

Folded up in leather covers,
and in the darkness sits and waits,
passed from hand to hand to hand,
it dreams of being free again.

Sat on table under pennies,
chequered cloth beneath it now,
coins picked up a zephyr catches,
floats it down the street again.

Caught between the blades of grass,
the rain begins to fall and soak,
it falls apart and dissapears,
back into the earth again.