fat balls.

CLOCKS GO BACK TODAY

November’s nearly here,

The bones of the street trees start to show,

There’s a cruel sharp cold edge in the air,

so I sit on my suburban front doorstep,

handling my fat balls.

But the neighbours don’t phone the law,

For I am not a weatherproofed pervert,

But the respectable owner of half a house

Who is unpacking and storing lumps of suet,

To feed his garden birds,

Through the winter that now begins,

But these birds aren’t really mine,

They’re not even my feathered friends.

I pay them with food hung from garden trees,

To brighten the air above,

A small, bramble-infested, eden.