THE AVENUE OF THE
LIVING DEAD.
I walk along the edges of hedges
Staying strictly on my side of the boundary walls,
That divide the public from the private
In this suburban street
I respect private home owners protected by privet
And do not pry
As I am only a spy or a secret agent
In my dreams
Which means that I never try
To look through net curtains
Or see behind
Trendier bamboo blinds
I don’t know what happens on the other side of their windows
And I don’t care what they do in there
Although imagining unlikely orgies
Or strange rituals
Is some solace to me
Passing the time,
As I pass each separate silent house
And walk alone along
The avenue of the living dead.
BIRDWATCHING
Wetlands are not what they once were
When beside lagoon or lake
The only sound was the wind sighing
And the calls of crane and crake
Where rails could rail
And waders could wade
Only harried by marsh harriers
Now meres that were swam on
By phalaropes
Or angled by fishing herons
Are gazed at by men with telescopes
And women with high powered lenses
And there is no corner of bog or creek
Where camoflague can blend in
So egrets egress
And bitterns get bitter
Because they’re sick of being peered at
By crowds of prying twitchers.
