2 POMES JAN 16

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.