Birds

This is also part of my nature portfolio.

I see you sat in the park,

Feeding birds from your bread bag,

Dead leaves swirling around your ankles and up your legs,

Submerging your dusty, brown shoes in a

Hurricane of death and grasping

Your brown trousers with a crinkled, dead

Hand that will shatter if touched.

Just like the hand you are fragile,

Dying like the leaves ready to fall

To the ground where they will decay

Just like you in your freshly dug grave.

The birds you sit with love you, more than any other

But in reality they love the bread, not the wrinkled old hand

They are fed with and stroked with, not the hand they peck and

Peck until there is nothing left but bones and blood.

You sit in the same place everyday, at the same time,

The old bench with the plaque you payed for.