Wren. The small bird of the world falling in love with itself again. Wait. Just wait. The human race will gather itself again to beauty. The grapes and the horseflesh pressed gently underfoot. Steaming and woozy, lost in poetry. Lifting up the poor, a hand held out, a dollar shed, a supplicant embrace. The ashen tree lines embarrassed with the victims of war, the children, blackened, lost. Wing away from the pain. Alight. Distance yourself from the abject. Wren. Quarter penny. Wren. The metal armour pierced with incandescent light. The heart all afire. Commerce moves in all corners of the ring. The light divides, separates, personalises the sweat. Identifies our crime. Wren. Master wren. Little champion of the coin. Majestic seal. Bird perched upon a world, pregnant with flight. The silence of cunning. Trading. Move me between hands, little master. Move me across the sky.