The birds of London are my friends,

The birds of London are my friends,

Or I like to imagine that that’s the case,

But, I do not warmly greet pavement pigeons,

For fear they won’t reciprocate.

Yet when I proceed antlike, along

The floors of cold canyon streets

a single seagull riding the wind

can lift my heart with its white wings.

Even a black crow against grey cloud,

above a bleak bus garage

is a spark of life, which makes me look up,

from the rubbish and puddles around my feet.

When I drag a bag home up a suburban hill,

Along street like millions more,

Magpies rattle and hop around

Rooftops and trees above my head.

Behind my house I pay small birds with food

Hung in feeders from my garden tree,

They fly in for the food that I provide

And I love to believe that they’re visiting me

But the tree is not really mine,

nor the garden where it chose to grow

I have a paper which says I own

But it’s mad to say that land  belongs to a man,

As mad as saying that birds are my friends

rubbish love

Do I love rubbish?

Or does  rubbish love me?

We attract each other mutually.

I sit at home and this what I see:

A small stone statue of a squid,

A street map of Ostend,

Two carpenter’s rules

A selection of stickers for long lost causes,

Harmonicas and parcel tape,

Manuals for programs that I never run,

Wires for computers that have long since gone,

A selection of DVD’s that I never watch,

A cardboard container for a bottle of scotch,

I was going to store something in it,

But I don’t know if I did,

So it sits on the shelf,

Until I replace it with something else,

Like a shoebox full of letters

Or a hat that doesn’t fit.

So perhaps I should move out

Taking all of this

And live with my love forever

On the street in a skip.