Magpies
It's the way they eye you,
those two-tone bloods
perched in their manor
tree, or dance-formation
spread across the field.
You have it, and they
want it, know, head
cocked, jet-eye wide
and unblinked - and what
they want, they get.
You can't nursery rhyme
these feathers; the asbo
can only handle seven
- secrets never told -
I count eight, ten, twelve.
'We like the cut of you,
and your suit.' They caw
some chuckles as you cross
the road: 'we'll check
your window later, mate!'
It's the way they eye you,
those two-tone bloods
perched in their manor
tree, or dance-formation
spread across the field.
You have it, and they
want it, know, head
cocked, jet-eye wide
and unblinked - and what
they want, they get.
You can't nursery rhyme
these feathers; the asbo
can only handle seven
- secrets never told -
I count eight, ten, twelve.
'We like the cut of you,
and your suit.' They caw
some chuckles as you cross
the road: 'we'll check
your window later, mate!'
Hi Rik,
ReplyDeleteI popped in from the A363 thread. Wow. I loooove your work, sorry that's not very useful crit is it, but you have a unique voice here. Poetry isn't usually my thing but I'm going to download some of your ebooks. Interesting to see how you are publishing them as well.
FB