I've been going through all the old poems in my computer (there must be hundreds!) that have never seen the light of day but have a small *something* about them worth salvaging. They are by no means complete and are definitely flawed creatures but I'd quite like them to be released so I thought I'd put a few here over the coming weeks.
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.
Thanks for reading


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,

regurgitate, shuddering, 
into your young.


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