Here is one which I wrote in 2011. I remember watching this very fat mauve woodpigeon that would waddle around our small city garden, and feeling slightly repulsed by what it had become. Our 'fault' as much as the bird's.
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dolloped on the creosote
fills its crop with scraps.
Oh survivor, soft-wadded
angel of leylandii and barbecue cubes,
snifter of breaded gougons,
cup cake cases, Mother’s Pride.
Did you live in the forests,
high in elm, Holm Oak,
before you landed here?
Your epaulettes of white
suggest you fought for many years,
leaving the shy jay,
nervous woodpecker to struggle.
You waddle the circumference
of your plot, pause to drop packets
of excrement, piped
like the Little Gems
you peck up after children’s parties,
into your young.