Seagulls, starlings, pigeons and crows
Scavenge around
the shops,
On top of
the hill above the orbital road.
Some slice through
the polluted air
Like white
winged knives
Some squawk and scuttle,
Along the pavements
To stay with their flock.
Some wait for opportunity
Perched atop lamposts.
Some just know where to go.
They find the shoe squashed grapes,
That have fallen from
Greengrocers’ displays.
They find crumbs
of pitta bread
Old cold potato chips
And rancid bits of kebab meat
So, life struggles on in this bleak place,
As long as there’s anything to eat.
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