Walking between Tea and Supper
The last year in the Sixth
was like the first year or the last man:
together they walked
through the Highgate Autumn
alienated, sick
of poems in school magazines
about treading down
falling leaves.
Crossed Waterlow Park
on slanting paths
towards the myna birds, rolling
a weed, studiously observing them
through rusty, spangled wire -
yellow eyes’ alertness
in a night of coal-black feathers,
and as the chill wind blew,
scrupulously
trying to teach them:
“Fuck off, fuck off……”
The wise birds
watched them, non-compliant
indifferent auguries,
and with the aloofness
the caged often have.
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